


The Prince Betrothed

by Agent_24



Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [7]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Kidnapping, Flirting, M/M, Magic, Pirates, Swordfighting, The Princess Bride AU, Torture, True Love, fairgameweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: Ruby and Yang refuse to go to sleep, so Taiyang decides to read them a fairy tale adventure full of princes and kings, pirates and kidnappers, sword fights and magic spells…and, of course, true love. A Princess Bride AU.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Ruby Rose & Taiyang Xiao Long, Ruby Rose & Yang Xiao Long, Taiyang Xiao Long & Yang Xiao Long
Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661305
Comments: 24
Kudos: 135





	The Prince Betrothed

**Author's Note:**

> Day 7: AU/Free Day

“If I read you a bedtime story,” Taiyang sighs, pinching his brow, “will you _please_ go to sleep?”

“Yes!” Yang shouts, loud enough that he nearly winces. 

Ruby, two years younger and possibly the most easily impressed 6 year old he’s ever laid eyes on, hangs onto his leg and screams, “Yeah!” just as loudly. Both of them are already in their pajamas and yet act as though he’d given them coffee, or…maybe, knowing those two, they’d managed to get into the open energy drink he’d left on the top shelf in the fridge.

Summer, he thinks wistfully, would be proud of him for how quickly he wrangles them into their room in spite of their hyperactivity, though he has to compromise and let Ruby squirm into Yang’s bed for storytime. “So,” he says, tiredly dragging a chair in from the kitchen, “what kind of—” 

“A princess story!” Ruby demands. 

“Princesses are boring!” Yang complains. “I want an action story! With fights and cool weapons!”

“Weapons are cool…” Ruby admits, pouting. “But I want a story about true love, too.”

Taiyang scratches his chin. “Hang on,” he says after a moment, and leaves for the living room once more to search the bookshelf. Somewhere, there’s probably…ah, one of Raven’s old storybooks, dug up out of nostalgia back when she’d been pregnant with Yang. 

“This’ll work,” he murmurs, and finds the girls eyeing him curiously when he re-enters their room and holds it up. “Got one.”

“Is it about princesses?” Yang asks skeptically, eyeing the cover. 

“Not exactly, but it is about true love,” Tai offers. “ _And_ it has sword fights, and magic forests, and monsters—”

“Read it! Read it!”

“Alright, alright,” Tai waves his hand. “Settle down, and stop jumping on the bed.” He takes a seat, licks his thumb and flips the cover open. “Here we go. _The Prince Betrothed._ Once upon a time…”

* * *

The Kingdom of Vale is ruled by the good King Ozma and his beloved, Queen Salem. To the east, the mysterious Kingdom of Vacuo; to the west, the Kingdom of Mistral, ruled by King Leonardo; and to the north, the frigid Kingdom of Atlas, ruled by King James.

Years ago, King Ozma had spearheaded a movement to unite the four kingdoms, but even now there are still quarrels over resources, the treatment of the working class, and of course, territory. Against the advice of his Queen, who thinks it best to bring the kingdoms under one rule through strength alone, Ozma seeks to enter an era of peace in which the kingdoms could retain their agency without the threat of war, but even such a noble cause sometimes requires…underhanded tactics. 

And so, not long after the movement had begun, King Ozma had enlisted the help of his four most trusted allies to carry out his will, which brings us to one of our heroes: Ozma’s most loyal spy, Lord Qrow of the Branwen Tribe.

Lord Branwen is often seen at Ozma’s side, a brazen voice at his left if Lady Goodwitch is the reasonable voice at his right. Both notoriously stubborn and infamously charming, Lord Branwen is considered one of the most handsome men of Vale, with fair skin and hair as dark as crow feathers, and most strikingly, vibrant red eyes. It is said that his beauty could only be rivaled by his twin sister, who only kept suitors at bay by virtue of the fact that she was a terrifying woman.

Because of the aforementioned charm and bullheadedness, Lord Branwen is often sent to the Kingdom of Atlas, where relationships with other kingdoms are precarious at best due to King James’s ever growing army. Because King James enjoys a friendship with King Ozma, he allows Lord Branwen’s heavy-handed criticism, and though the two butt heads often, Qrow’s unfettered judgement had prevented many an international confrontation.

But King Ozma and Lord Branwen share a secret: Qrow has magic in his lineage, and both he and his twin could take the shape of a bird. Through this method of disguise, Qrow listens in on meetings he isn’t invited to, private conversations in Atlas castle gardens, and even gathers information passed along in the dark streets of Atlas’s lower kingdom. 

On one such trip, King James welcomes him in the courtyard with a shake of his metal hand, and introduces Qrow to our second hero: one of his highest ranking generals, Clover Ebi—

* * *

“Hey, hang on!” Yang exclaims. “Doesn't this sound kinda like—”

“Yang, don't interrupt,” Tai chides. “You can ask questions at the end.”

She pouts and folds her arms. “Okay,” she concedes, and Ruby snickers at her side. Yang glares at her, and Tai clears his throat.

* * *

It is here that Qrow’s job becomes messy; one look at General Ebi’s broad shoulders, his sharp jawline, his crooked grin, and Qrow finds himself terribly, horribly smitten. The worst of it, he thinks, are General Ebi’s sea green eyes, which glitter when he smiles and resemble gems so much that it’s truly a wonder that he isn’t married.

Qrow is determined to stay focused on King Ozma’s assignment, but ultimately fails. The general steals his attention all throughout the court gathering that follows, and afterwards, when the general asks after him, Qrow can’t bring himself to say no.

“Will you be in Atlas long?” General Ebi asks. 

“Not much longer,” Qrow admits with some reluctance, despite having been eager to return to Vale just that morning. “King Ozma expects me back in two weeks.”

“Then,” the general murmurs, “I’d like it if I could see you again before you leave. If it pleases you.”

It does please him, and so Qrow sees him the next night, and the night after. The general insists that Qrow call him Clover, and so Qrow insists on his given name in turn. They talk of their families, and they walk through the palace gardens until the moon rises. They begin taking meals together, and catch each other's eyes during meetings without apology. 

“Write to me,” Qrow tells him before the ship back to Vale departs. 

Clover smiles and nods, and places a kiss on Qrow’s cheek. “As you wish,” he promises. 

Thus begins a thinly veiled love affair between a Lord of Vale and a General of Atlas, supposedly under the noses of their kings and yet undeniable to anyone who might witness the two in the same room. If Qrow crosses Atlas borders, he can hardly tear himself from Clover’s arms, and gives up sleep if it means that he can fulfill his duties to Ozma and still have his moments with Clover in the gardens, if it means he might return to Clover’s bed for the night. If Qrow remains in Vale, he can hardly keep a pen and paper out of his hands. 

First name basis turns to a nickname basis in fond teasing for each other’s namesakes. Little else suits the two of them more than making each other happy, and so whatever Qrow asks of Clover is met with “As you wish, pretty bird,” and whatever Clover asks of Qrow is met with “Only for you, lucky charm.”

After three years of love letters and woefully infrequent visits, they come to understand these phrases to be declarations of love.

Finally, in the late and already cold autumn of Atlas, Clover takes Qrow’s hands in the dark of his bedroom and says quietly, “King James is sending me into Vacuo for a peace conference.”

Qrow knows this already, and swallows his guilt for not saying so. “How long will you be gone?” he asks.

“Until early spring,” Clover answers. He draws Qrow into his arms and threads fingers through his hair. “You’ll be in Vale again long before then.”

Qrow tucks his nose into Clover’s shoulder, breathes him in and runs fingers along the man’s spine. “I could wait,” he murmurs. “Or I could visit Atlas in time to welcome you back.”

“If I returned and found you waiting for me,” Clover tells him seriously, “I think I would have to marry you.”

Qrow withdraws from him, but only to nudge a kiss against Clover’s mouth. “Then be safe,” he answers. “And I’ll marry you when you come back to me.”

And so Qrow stays to see Clover off, leaves him with tender kisses and embraces tight enough to hurt. Clover's ship disappears from the Atlas coast, and Qrow returns to Vale and his king with both stolen intelligence and a heavy heart.

And months later, when he returns in the spring, King James meets him personally, dressed for mourning.

“You must have departed just as my letter arrived,” James tells him with practiced solemnity, with a deep-set frown and sad eyes. “Clover’s ship was attacked by the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

He doesn't have to say the rest. Qrow knows as well as anyone that the legendary Roberts has never once taken survivors. Qrow feels his heart shatter into pieces and falls to his knees, makes a weak noise of disbelief before the tears start flowing and he wails in grief.

After a moment, James drops to his knees next to Qrow, pulling him into a hug and letting him fall apart on his shoulder.

* * *

“Hold it!” Yang interrupts again. “What kind of dumb story is this? He's dead already?”

Tai sighs. “It's not over yet,” he says. “Let me finish.”

“He's not really dead, is he?” Ruby asks in a small voice.

“Aw, come on, you two,” Tai says. “Do you really think I'd read you something sad and horrible?”

Yang still looks skeptical. Ruby thinks for a minute. “No, I guess not,” she says.

“Alright, then,” Tai says, then continues.

* * *

Qrow shuts himself away in Clover’s room and doesn’t eat or sleep for days. He stays in Atlas for some time to mourn at an empty grave and lays new flowers there each night. 

James finds him in the garden one night, numbly plucking petals off of one of Clover’s favorite flowers. They sit quietly together for a time until Qrow speaks and finds he can hardly stop, spilling out all of his fondest memories of his lover, be they mundane or adventurous. When he’s talked himself hoarse, he listens to James’s memories in turn, and wishes he’d had as many years at Clover’s side as James had. 

Qrow eventually returns to Vale, and King Ozma does not ask him to return to Atlas. At least, not for another five years.

See, beyond being ruled by King James, Atlas is also largely governed by the previously mentioned court, and the court has decided that kingship is too much for one single person to bear, which means that James must marry if he wishes to keep his throne. In addition, because of Atlas’s strained relationships with other nations, the court wishes for him to marry someone from either Vacuo, Mistral, or Vale.

“I dedicated my life to you,” Qrow says, voice tight with defeat, “and this is how I’m repaid.”

King Ozma exhales. He’d summoned Qrow into his quarters to give him the news privately, so that he might react freely and without judgement. He sits at his desk and rubs his temples. “He asked for you by name,” he says. “To refuse…his court would view it as a declaration of war. I’m sorry, Qrow.” 

“I told you when I returned that I would never marry.”

“I know.” Ozma laces his fingers together and rests his mouth there, thoughtful. “I can’t deny his request without repercussions. But, should you convince him that he should seek a spouse elsewhere…the court couldn’t say no to their king changing his mind.” 

Qrow’s fists tighten at his side.

“Qrow,” Ozma says gently, “I am truly, truly sorry.”

“I’d like to sail to Atlas as soon as possible,” Qrow replies stiffly, “so I can talk sense into him. Again.” 

Ozma nods. “You’ll have a ship by morning,” he promises, and Qrow takes his leave.

This time, royal escorts meet him at Atlas’s harbor. Qrow is led to James’s study by a servant, who knocks on the grand doors and bows deeply when granted permission to enter. James sits at his desk, dressed vibrantly now that he must play the role of suitor.

Once the servant departs, Qrow lets James have it.

“What, exactly, was unclear about ‘I’ll never love again’?” he demands. “You didn’t even court me, nevermind propose!” 

“I hardly could,” James objects. “You refused to visit, and I couldn’t very well leave my kingdom defenseless in effort to go to you.”

“Who would attack Atlas’s great army, even with you gone?” Qrow’s voice climbs, eyes glistening and betraying how upset he is. “I care for you, James, but I meant it when I said I would love no one else.”

“I didn’t ask you to love me,” James says. 

Qrow pauses, mouth open.

James sighs and rubs a gloved hand down his face. He looks tired, bags set heavy under his eyes. Grief and stress have set both of them graying, but more telling is James’s beard, grown thick as if he can’t be bothered to even let a servant shave him. “I don’t get the luxury of marrying for love, Qrow,” he says. “I’ve known this since I was a child. And you being at Ozma’s side the way you are…it would never have been an option for you, if you wished to remain there. Wouldn’t it be better, at least, to marry someone you know?”

“I…” Qrow trails off, brows knitting.

James rises, hands folded behind his back, a proper and elegant pillar of strength. “I won’t force you,” he says. “I won’t ask that you try to love me. But I would ask that you consider marriage.” He pauses, then, sincere, “I’d treat you well.”

Qrow’s eyes flit over his face before he looks away sharply. “I know you would.”

“And I wouldn’t make you spy for me.” 

Qrow stiffens, then glances up again. “You knew.”

James nods. “I did.” His voice softens. “So did Clover.”

All of Qrow’s breath leaves him in one harsh exhale.

James moves around his desk, and Qrow tenses up all over again, but James only puts a hand on his shoulder. “I miss him too,” he murmurs, and tears Qrow has managed to hold back for the last few months well up fresh. 

They decide to be married that summer.

* * *

“He shouldn’t marry someone he doesn’t love!” Ruby says suddenly, sitting up on her knees so quick that she nearly startles the book out of Taiyang’s hands. 

“Yeah,” Yang agrees. “When’s this story supposed to get good?”

“Slow your roll, kids,” Tai says, motioning for them to sit again. “We haven’t even gotten to the kidnapping yet.”

“Kidnapping?” they both say at once, eyes wide.

“Sit,” Tai says cheerfully, then goes on:

* * *

It’s odd, to suddenly be a prince with almost no warning.

James sends servants to Vale to gather Qrow’s things. Qrow sends a letter to Ozma with them, explaining his decision. Though he spends his days at James’s side, or being ushered through grand and hasty wedding plans, Qrow still visits the gardens at night, imagining what it would be like to go through this whole ordeal with his true love, instead. 

He wonders what color Clover might’ve worn at the altar. Knowing him, it would’ve been something green.

One night, as he paces the same path he took five years ago with Clover’s hand in his, Qrow gets the distinct feeling that he’s being watched. He pauses, cautious, listening, but by the time he turns towards a rustling in the rose bushes, something heavy has struck him in the back of the head. 

He groans awake hours later, sore and off-kilter. He’s laying on a hard surface…wood, he thinks, only something about it doesn’t seem solid. A ship?

He opens his eyes and jumps, surprised to see a face close by. 

“Ah, you’re awake!” a woman says brightly. She’s perhaps the biggest human being Qrow’s ever seen, muscular and towering in a way most men can only dream of being even underneath a swamping tunic. 

“Where am I?” Qrow rasps. 

“Don’t crowd him, Elm.” Another woman’s voice, lighter, and belonging to a dashingly handsome blond who wears a sword at her side and stands near the mast of the little boat, ropes tight in hand.

“I only wanted to make sure he was breathing,” Elm objects. She stands up straight, and ends up even taller than Qrow had first imagined. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard,” she tells him gently.

“What does it matter?” a third voice demands. Qrow glances up near the bow and finds a skinny man, white haired and mustached, with clothes and a sneer better fitting of a man of wealth. “You two do realize we’ll be killing him, don’t you?”

The woman with the sword folds her arms. “You never said we would be killing anyone, Jacques.”

“We’re starting a _war,_ for gods’ sakes,” Jacques says with a roll of his eyes. “I hired you for your steel, Miss Hill, not your brains, or lack thereof. You’d do best to remember that.”

Hill’s eye twitches. Elm butts in, “Robyn is right. Killing an innocent man…that’s more than we signed up for. Wouldn’t it be enough to hide him away?”

“Her Majesty demands a war,” Jacques says, stubborn. “And nothing short of spilling the blood of Vale’s sweetheart, so soon after being betrothed to Atlas’s king, will do it. Now do your jobs, or I’ll find another swordsman and another giant.”

The two women share a look before rolling their eyes and going on about their duties. Qrow, meanwhile, quietly files away little details: some terrible mistress wants a war, apparently; Elm does not walk with an air of vigilance; Jacques doesn’t seem fit to fight at all, and Robyn…Robyn might be a problem. But he can handle problems. And as it is, they haven’t left him tied.

He sits up enough to look over the edge of the boat. He can see Atlas lights glowing in the distance behind them, barely a twinkle at this distance. It’d be tiring to fly that far, and cold, but he didn’t necessarily have to reach the city by wing. If he could just get back to shore, he could walk on foot a while to rest, and then…

He glances back at his captors, then quietly rises, bracing his hands on the boat railing, feeling a shift prickle under his skin, and—

“Ah, ah!” Elm says loudly, grabbing his arm and pulling him back into the boat. “Don’t be foolish, Prince. You wouldn’t last more than a few minutes in water this cold, and we don’t need you frozen.” 

“Here,” Robyn calls, tossing Elm a spool of rope. “Tie him.”

“Shit,” Qrow murmurs, and Elm binds his wrists together. So much for flying.

“I suppose you think you’re brave,” Jacques tells him, apparently done pacing the length of the boat to find something to boss the others about. 

Qrow lifts his chin. “Braver than some.”

Robyn snorts quietly. Elm smiles. Jacques’s pale face turns red in anger, and he snatches Qrow’s collar in his fist. “Mind your tongue, Highness,” he snaps. “Your life is in my hands.”

“How reassuring,” Qrow drawls. “James will find me, and then you’ll wish you’d never laid eyes on me.” 

“By the time your fool king realizes you’re gone, it’ll be too late,” Jacques spits.

“Schnee,” Robyn calls from the back of the boat. “Someone’s here.”

“What?” Jacques demands, whirling and abandoning his intimidation tactics. “Inconceivable. Who would be out this late at night?” 

Robyn raises her brow at him, but points off in the distance. “It’s a single ship. Doesn’t look like anything from the royal armada.”

Jacques gapes, then snaps to attention and heads for the wheel of the boat. “It could be someone trying to take our plan for themselves. Plan B, then. We’ll divert course to the Cliffs of Insanity and lose whoever it is there. Elm is the only one who could make that climb.”

“Why are you taking me back to Vale?” Qrow asks. 

“We aren’t,” Elm corrects. “We’re taking you to Vacuo, but—” 

“Be quiet!” Jacques snaps. “Imbecile!” 

“What does it matter, if we’re going to kill him?”

“Just—” Jaques fumes. “Silence!”

Qrow chews his lip thoughtfully. Vacuo. If they’re taking him to Vacuo, and they plan to kill him, then…likely, they want to frame the kingdom for sabotaging the treaty between Atlas and Vale. James would declare war on Vacuo upon learning of his death, and Ozma…knowing him, he’d try to restore the peace, which Atlas would only see as siding with Vacuo. And it would be all too easy to pull Mistral into the fray too, considering their current treaty with Atlas. It would be a world war.

Qrow needs to get off this boat, _now_.

While the little crew scrambles, trying to outpace whoever’s following them, Qrow tries to work off his bindings. The robe burns at his skin, but if he twists his arm just so, maybe he can dislocate his wrist and pop it back into place before anyone notices—

“Up you go, Prince,” Elm says, hoisting him up by the waist. Qrow makes a little half-strangled noise of surprise before she sets him on his feet, on solid ground this time. Qrow looks up at the jagged cliffside and swallows; a height like that, without his wings? 

“And how exactly are we supposed to get up there?” he demands, then looks back down and says in dismay, “Oh.”

“Don’t worry,” Elm says cheerfully, buckling the straps of a very complicated harness around her body. “I won’t drop you. I’m a good climber, and the rope is thick enough to hold all of us.”

Qrow shuts his eyes and exhales with what he feels is an extreme show of patience. “Does it matter when you’re just going to kill me?” he asks. 

“Be quiet and strap in,” Jacques orders, shoving him forward. “Hurry up.”

Qrow is unceremoniously wrestled into the harness and ends up gripping Elm’s shirt tightly while she scales the rope with surprisingly little effort for someone carrying three people. Still, every time she grunts in effort, Qrow feels his stomach leap up in his throat. How stupid would it be to fall to his death when he could fly? Ridiculous.

“See?” Jacques says triumphantly from his spot at Elm’s left. “Now whoever that is will have to sail around and find somewhere to dock. We’ll be long gone by then.”

Qrow glances down at the ship (and immediately wishes he hadn’t). He doesn’t recognize it, and there’s no sigils designating who it belongs to. The ship isn’t much bigger than the little one they just abandoned, and it glides to a slow stop right next to it. 

“Guess again, smartass,” Robyn pipes up from Elm’s back. “Look down there. He’s climbing.”

Qrow glances down again. Sure enough, there’s a man, masked and dressed all in black, scaling the rope. And, surprisingly, he’s _gaining_ _._

“Inconceivable!” Jacques yells. “Giant, climb faster! You’re supposed to be the strongest there is!” 

“Yes, well,” Elm grits out, sweat gathering at her brow, “he’s only carrying himself, and I’ve got me and all three of you. So shut up, maybe, before I slip.”

“Are you not understanding that your job is at stake?!” Jacques goes on, as if he hadn’t heard her.

Elm grunts again, this time in plain annoyance, and finally hoists the three of them up. The second her feet touch the ground, Jacques pulls out a knife and starts sawing at the rope. Taunt material pops loudly until the rope snaps and slides off the edge of the cliff into the waves below.

Elm takes Qrow’s arm after unbuckling the harness, and the four of them peek over the edge.

“Huh,” Qrow says curiously.

“Good arms,” Elm remarks.

“Inconceivable,” Jacques yells. “He lived?”

Robyn looks at him. “Do you actually know what that word means?” she asks.

“Stay here,” he barks. “If he falls, he falls. If not, kill him when he gets to the top and catch up with us when you’re done. Elm, with me.” 

Robyn brightens suddenly, more animated than she’s been the whole way so far. “I’m going to duel him left-handed,” she announces, as though this were a tournament.

“We don’t have time for your foolishness!” Jacques scolds. “Must you?”

“How could I have my fun, otherwise?” Robyn asks. “I didn’t take this job for easy wins. I’ll catch up.”

“Just hurry,” Jacques concedes through his teeth, then shoos Elm and Qrow off.

Qrow glances back as Robyn falls into a few practiced stances like she can’t keep still, and wonders if it’d be easier to escape from this disorganized band of misfits, or one mysterious man in black.

* * *

“Who’s the man in black?” Ruby asks.

“Ruby, you can’t just _ask,”_ Yang says impatiently. “It’s supposed to be a _mystery.”_

“Ohhhh,” Ruby says, nodding and shutting an imaginary zipper across her mouth.

Tai stifles a laugh and goes on.

* * *

Robyn peers over the cliffside again and finds that the man in black hasn’t gotten much headway. The cliffs are a steep climb even for someone with Elm’s strength. “How long do you suppose you’ll be?” she calls down.

Exasperated, the man replies, “You know, this really isn’t as easy as I’m making it look. I’d appreciate it if you let me concentrate.”

“Sure.” She turns away from the cliff and paces again. The boredom gets to her almost immediately. She leans over the edge again. “I’m in a terrible rush, is all.”

“If you’re in such a hurry, you could throw me down a rope.”

“You’d accept my help? I’m sort of waiting around to kill you, you know.”

The man looks up at her, lips pursed. The upper half of his face is hidden by a mask, but she can still see him glaring at her. “That does put a damper on our relationship, doesn’t it?” he grunts, pulling himself up to grip the next ledge.

“I could swear,” Robyn says. “I’d swear I won’t kill you till you’ve made it the rest of the way up. How about that?”

“Ah, yes. Why shouldn’t I trust a woman waiting to gut me with a sword?”

“I’m a guild member. I swear on my clan.”

“Hah!” 

She thinks on it. “I give you my word as an Atlesian.”

“All three of you bastards are Atlesian. I’m beginning to think Atlesians can’t be trusted.”

Robyn supposes that’s true. She says solemnly, “Then I swear on the spirit of my mother, dead twenty years, that I won’t kill you until you reach the top.”

The man pauses for a moment. Then, “Give me the rope.” 

Robyn unwinds the remaining rope from its anchor and throws it down to him. Once he has a grip on it, she starts pulling, and between the two of them, he scales the rest of the cliffside quickly.

“There you are,” Robyn says with thinly veiled delight.

The man rests his hands on his knees while he tries to get his breath back, dangerous eyes flicking up to her as he reaches for his blade. Robyn holds her hand up to stop him and steps away to lean on the crumbled stone remains of whatever buildings once littered the cliff, folding her arms casually. “We’ll fight when you’re rested,” she says.

“Thank you,” he wheezes gratefully, dropping to the ground to shake rocks out of his boots.

There’s a long silence. Then, antsy, Robyn asks, “Out of curiosity, are you a Faunus?”

The man looks up at her. “You know, most people ask for my name, first.”

“You wouldn’t have given it to me,” she returns. “So?”

He tilts his head. “I’m not,” he answers. “You have something against the Faunus?”

Robyn frowns and sighs, glancing out towards the sea below. “A very specific Faunus. A scorpion. But I cut off his tail twenty years ago. Now, each time I fight, I have to ask.”

The man’s eyes flash with recognition, but he covers it up with a snort. “A self-made problem if I’ve ever heard one.”

“I’d prefer to search than to have let him leave with it,” she scowls.

“Fair,” he concedes. “What’s his crime, then?”

“He killed my mother,” she says. “She was a sword maker.” She draws her blade and holds it flat in her hands, offering it to him for a look.

He eyes her curiously, then takes it, examining it studiously. “It’s extremely well-crafted,” he compliments.

She nods, taking it back and returning it to its sheath before taking a seat next to him. “Her finest work,” she says. “And her last. The scorpion commissioned it from her, but when she finished, he refused to pay. When she wouldn’t give it to him, he cut her down.”

The man’s shoulders fall, somber. “My condolences.” 

“I’ve been looking for him ever since,” she says. “And studying the sword all the while. Twenty years now.” She turns her right cheek towards him, thumbing across a thin scar there, and then again on her left. “I tried to fight him, and he gave me these. Poisoned me with it, too, but I survived. When I find him, I’m going to return that pain tenfold. I'm going to look him I'm the eye and say, ‘hello, my name is Robyn Hill. You killed my mother. Prepare to die’.”

The man smiles. “You sound very sure you’ll get out of this fight alive.”

She grins. “I plan to.”

“Well,” the man says, pulling his boot on again. “In that case.”

They both rise. Robyn draws her sword again, in her left hand this time. “You seem a decent fellow,” she tells him genuinely. “I hate to kill you.”

“You seem a decent fellow,” the man returns, drawing his sword in turn, left-handed, confidence laced in his smile and the loose way he carries himself. “I hate to die.”

Robyn swipes her sword at him. He parries. She swipes once more. He parries again and thrusts forward. Robyn bats his blade away just before he skims her. Interest and curiosity lights her face.

The clang of swords goes faster with each swing, a merciless tempo for a dangerous dance. The man in black dodges her blade, and she jumps over his, and they chase each other up and down jagged, stony pathways and left-behind staircases. Each time she thinks she has him cornered, he evades. 

“You’re wonderful!” she admits.

“As are you,” he returns pleasantly.

“I should be, after a decade.”

“Then you must forgive me for saying I’m better.” 

Robyn grins. “You’re forgiven. If you’ll forgive me for withholding a secret.”

He ducks out of the way as she slashes towards his cheek. “And what’s that?”

“I’m not left-handed,” she tells him, and tosses her sword into her right.

Under his mask, his eyes go wide. Robyn attacks faster, slicing at his shoulders and only managing to slit the fabric of his shirt, and chases him up to a crumbled half of a window, backing him against the stone. 

“Any last words?” she asks. 

“Just a few,” he answers with a grunt of effort. “I’m not left-handed, either.” He switches hands and flips Robyn’s sword out of her grip, and it clatters to the ground far out of reach. She rears back in time to avoid a swipe at her belly, the man’s sword only slicing her vest, then dives for her weapon, and he chases her back down. 

They pause, watching each other carefully. After a moment, the man flashes her a grin and sticks his sword in the sandy earth, then grabs at his torn sleeves and rips them the rest of the way off. Robyn huffs in amusement and sticks her sword in the ground too, pulling off her ruined vest. They both cast the scraps of fabric to the ground and draw their swords in the same instant, steel clashing against steel.

“You’re marvelous!” he compliments when he flips her sword away again and watches her catch it in mid-air.

Her smile is less confident now. “As are you,” she says. Both of them are breathing hard. “But…better than me, as you said. Who are you?”

“Ah,” he says, holding a finger to his lips. “That’s a secret.”

“I have to know,” she says, with the finality of someone who expects to die.

His jaw hardens, almost imperceptibly. “Get used to disappointment,” he says.

Robyn sighs and shrugs, and they begin again.

Minutes later, after he has disarmed her a third time, he kicks her sword away and stands above her, the picturesque executioner, all in black and with his blade at her throat while he circles her. 

“Do me a favor?” Robyn asks, charming and dignified even in the face of death. “Make it quick, would you? Let my lover have an open casket for me.”

He laughs. “A casket? Apologies if this insults your honor, miss, but I could never take the life of such an artist.” Here, a pause, before he strikes her in the back of the head. Her eyes roll back as she crumples to the dirt. “But please understand that this is me giving you my utmost respect.”

And with that, he follows after the remaining kidnappers and abducted prince.

* * *

“Yeah, the sword fights! Finally, the good parts!” Yang cheers.

“He’s not a bad guy then, right?” Ruby asks. “Since he didn’t kill Robyn.”

“No,” Taiyang answers in amusement, “he’s not a bad guy. You’ll see.”

* * *

“Inconceivable!” Jacques screeches from a high path, where the three had been watching the battle from a safe distance. “Absolutely inconceivable!” 

“What now?” Elm asks, brows knitted and her eyes fixed on Robyn’s still form.

“Now, I’m going to take the prince,” Jacques gripes, snatching Qrow by the arm, “and you’re going to stay here and kill him your way.”

“My way?”

“Hide behind a boulder and smash his head open when he comes around the bend! Must I explain everything around here?!”

“Don’t I get any say in this?” Qrow asks dryly. 

“No! Be quiet!” 

Jacques rushes off with him. Elm scratches the back of her neck and picks up a large rock, frowning deeply at it. “I think my way would be fairer,” she mutters to herself. “No sportsmanship, that one.”

And so she waits, hidden, and after a while the man in black comes running up the path. He pauses at the rocky terrain, cautiously looking around for an ambush.

Elm chucks a rock and it shatters against stone behind him, only barely missing his head. The man jumps and draws his sword, suddenly looking pale as a sheet.

“I did that on purpose,” she calls as she steps out from behind her cover. “Missed your head, that is.”

He visibly swallows. “I don’t doubt it,” he says. “Why spare me?”

Elm shrugs, tossing another rock from one hand to the other. “I wouldn’t call it ‘sparing’,” she says decidedly. “I just didn’t think it was right to kill a man when he can’t fight back.”

“How noble of you,” he says, tensing up as she takes a step closer. “So what now?”

“So now we fight,” she says with a shrug. “No tricks, no dishonesty.” She tilts her head and tosses the rock back and forth once more, watching the way his eyes follow the movement. “We can even fight with no weapons, as the gods intended, if that suits you.”

“So you won’t smash me with a rock,” he says slowly, “and I won’t stab you, and we’ll just kill each other with our bare hands, like civilized people.”

“Sure.”

“I think you still have the advantage when it comes to hand-to-hand,” he says, but he puts his sword down all the same.

Elm grins and tosses the rock over her shoulder. “Probably,” she says cheerfully. “But who knows? I don’t even exercise, so the winner may very well be you.”

“Here’s hoping,” the man in black says, then lunges at her.

Elm very nearly laughs as he makes a low noise of shock when he shoves his shoulder into her belly and she doesn’t so much as flinch. He wraps his arms around her waist and shoves again, trying to throw her off her feet, but still, she doesn’t move.

After a moment of struggle, he retreats. “You’re making fun of me,” he accuses.

“I just didn’t want you to be embarrassed,” she admits, hiding a smile behind her hand.

“Funny way of showing it,” he says.

“Sorry,” Elm replies sincerely, then steps forward and reaches for him. Much to her surprise, the man dives between her legs and rolls to his feet behind her. “Oh!” she booms, impressed. “You’re fast!”

“Which might be my only advantage here,” he replies, darting away when she swipes for him again.

“What do you want with Qrow Branwen?” she asks curiously, swinging a punch. He slides under her arm, bent back at the waist and boots skidding in the dirt before he’s behind her again. “And what’s the mask for? Were you disfigured?”

“Masks are fashionable,” he answers, which is certainly a lie. He doesn’t answer her other question and dodges another blow. It doesn’t escape her that he hasn’t swung a punch himself yet. 

Elm corners him against a boulder and reaches out towards him. He ducks her grasp again, but this time, when he slips past her, he jumps onto her back and gets his arms around her neck.

“Ah!” Elm says. “So that’s what you’re up to.”

“Admittedly, this isn’t my cleverest maneuver,” the man says, then grunts when Elm turns around and slams him into the boulder. 

“You know,” Elm says, a little raspy now, “You’re more trouble than I thought you’d be.”

“Oh? Don’t I look—” all the breath rushes out of him as Elm squashes him against another rock, “—intimidating enough?” he finishes. 

“You look plenty dangerous,” Elm says honestly. “It’s only—” she grits her teeth and hisses out a breath, spinning around to try to shake him. “It’s just that I’m used to fighting large groups of people. You know, gangs, bands of thieves, things like that.” 

“You seem quite—” the man wheezes weakly as she throws all her weight into him and catches him against another boulder. “You seem formidable in that respect,” he manages.

Elm’s vision starts to go dark at the edges. “Yes, well,” she rasps, “The thing is that…that fighting a dozen men and fighting…one little speed demon like you is…is very different…” She drops to one knee. “And I think you’re probably…more of a handful than…most of the people I’ve fought…” 

She trails off and slumps to the ground. The man in black exhales and relaxes, then pushes himself up and rolls her onto her back so she doesn’t lie face down in the mud.

“Sorry for the headache you’ll have,” he says, then climbs to his feet, retrieves his sword, and follows after Qrow and Jacques.

Far off in higher, rolling hills, Jacques shouts, “Inconceivable!”

* * *

“What does inconceivable mean?” Ruby asks. 

“It means ‘unbelievable,’” Tai answers.

Yang frowns. “Is he using it wrong?”

“Not technically,” Tai admits. “He just uses it too much, because he’s not as smart as he thinks he is.”

“Ohhh,” both girls say understandingly. Tai’s lips quirk up, and he starts again.

* * *

“You three might be the worst kidnappers I’ve ever seen,” Qrow states, which isn’t entirely true. It’s just that the man in black happens to be very, very good, and very, very clever. That’s been good news so far; the man’s whittled their numbers down, which gives Qrow a better chance of escaping, but if he doesn’t manage to get out of his bindings before the man arrives to finish off Jacques—

“Stop your wiggling,” Jacques scolds, shaking Qrow’s arm. He drags Qrow a little further up a hill until they come to flat ground, where Jacques shoves him to the ground near a boulder, then reaches into his bag and sets two goblets and a bottle of wine on top of the stone.

“Don’t move,” Jacques says, then ties a blindfold around Qrow’s eyes. Qrow starts to reach up to pull it off just to be contrary, but Jacques sits next to him and holds a dagger to his throat.

“For gods’ sakes,” Qrow mutters.

“Quiet,” Jacques snaps.

After a while, Qrow catches the sound of boots.

“And so,” Jacques calls, “there were two.”

The bootsteps slow. 

“If you want me to kill him,” Jacques says, “then please, come closer.”

The boots pause, then resume. “There’s no need to be hasty,” comes the man in black’s voice, oddly familiar.

“Hasty!” Jacques spits. “You’re attempting to take what’s already mine.”

“Is he yours?”

“I told you to stop there, you rapscallion.”

Qrow makes a sharp noise as the blade at his throat digs in just slightly. The footsteps finally stop.

“Let’s make a deal,” the man in black says. “Shall we?”

“There’s no deal to be made,” Jacques refuses. “I have what you want, and you can’t come a step closer without being responsible for his throat getting slit.”

“Then it seems we’ve reached a stalemate.”

“Ordinarily, I’d agree,” Jacques sniffs, “but as it stands, your brawn and steel are no match for my brains.”

A smile bleeds into the man’s voice. “You believe you’re smarter?”

“Do you think wrangling those imbeciles was the work of a dullard?”

“How’s this, then?” the man offers. “If I beat you in a battle of wits, you hand Lord Branwen over to me. If you win, you do with him as you like.”

Qrow scowls.

Jacques hesitates, but it’s clear he can’t resist the urge to make someone else seem stupid. “What do you propose?”

More footsteps as the man steps closer, and a ruffling sound as he fishes something from his pocket. “Here,” he says. “What do you smell?”

Jacques sniffs. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Exactly. This is iocane, a lethal poison with no scent or taste. Pour us some wine, will you?”

More hesitance, and the pressure of the blade on Qrow’s throat lessens. There’s a sound of wine being poured, more shuffling, and a clink of goblets on stone. “Now,” the man says, “Where is the poison?”

Silence, and then Jacques laughs. “That’s it? That’s how you intend to beat me? With a simple little game? All that’s required of me is to divine which is poisoned by what I know about you.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“All I have to do,” Jacques repeats, “is figure out what sort of person you are. I know you’re clever, and a clever man would never put poison into his own cup. But you must have known I would guess that, and put it in your own cup to be contrary.”

The man in black offers no commentary.

“Iocane comes from Menagerie, and Menagerie is ruled by beasts and criminals—” here, the man in black gives a huff of annoyance, which Jacques promptly ignores, “—and criminals expect people not to trust them. So clearly, you poisoned your own wine. But you, being clever, must have known that I would know the poison’s place of make, so clearly, the poison is in my cup.”

“Your genius is truly awe inspiring.”

“I’ve just barely begun!” Jacques cries. “Because you bested my giant, I can tell that you’re incredibly strong, and therefore you might think you could handle the poison. _Clearly,_ the poison is therefore in your cup! But you also bested my swordswoman, which means you’re well-read, and well-read men would know that man can’t live on physical strength alone! So, _clearly,_ the poison is in my cup!”

“You’re stalling. Is this going to go on much longer? I do have places to be, kings to outrun.”

“I’m not stalling! I simply—oh, what’s that?”

“What?” 

Another faint clink of metal against stone. “Oh, nothing. Must have been my imagination. Well, cheers, then.”

Qrow listens, tense. He hears them both swallow loudly, like making a show of it. They set their goblets down. Jacques suddenly explodes into laughter, and Qrow startles. “Ha! You fool! You fell for the simplest ploy known to man! I switched the glasses when you turned away!”

“Did you?” the man asks calmly.

“I did! You should’ve known better than to take your eyes off me! You idiot! You imbecile! You bumbling—”

Jacques cuts off suddenly. To Qrow’s right, there’s a heavy thud.

A sigh. “I thought he’d never shut up,” the man in black says, and then the blindfold is lifted from Qrow’s eyes.

Qrow glares at him. “Shame he took your cup,” he sneers.

The man’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “It wouldn’t have mattered,” he says, taking a knife and cutting the rope around Qrow’s wrists. “Both cups were poisoned. I’ve been building immunity to many poisons for years.”

Qrow stares at him. It strikes him that this man possibly is an idiot, or possibly is just very ballsy, or possibly both. Still, he doesn’t even look flushed after drinking a whole goblet of poison, so maybe he really does know what he’s doing.

He looks at the man's sleeves suddenly, or lack thereof, and frowns. “What happened to your shirt?”

“Long story. Come along now, Your Highness.”

“Don't call me that," Qrow mutters.

The man gives him an odd look and takes Qrow’s hand (goddammit, isn’t anyone going to look away long enough for him to fly off?) and pulls him onwards, near sprinting.

* * *

“Why isn’t the man in black taking him back to James?” Yang asks. “Is he trying to start a war, too?”

“No, he’s not trying to start a war,” Taiyang answers.

“But he didn’t go back to Atlas,” Ruby observes. 

“Well,” Tai says carefully, so as to not spoil the rest of the story, “Maybe the man in black wants the prince for himself.”

Ruby cups her own cheeks. “That’s so romantic,” she sighs.

Yang just hums thoughtfully, squinting like she’s putting the pieces together. Tai snorts quietly and continues.

* * *

Meanwhile, up on the Cliffs of Insanity, a tall, reedy man dances in the footsteps of Robyn and the man in black. 

“There were two great swordsmen,” he says, delight in his voice. “No traces of blood anywhere. Neither of them landed a hit. That takes a great amount of skill.”

“And?” James presses. He sits antsy on his horse, surrounded by a small league of his most skilled soldiers. The reedy man is his best hunter, a wily bastard named Count Tyrian Callows.

“And!” Tyrian says excitedly, “The loser fell here—” he dances over raised stone, jumps down from a broken staircase to a large disruption in the sand, “and later scurried off, their life spared.” He waltzes over towards abandoned cloth, then offers up a torn sleeve and a ruined vest to the king. “We’re dealing with a master, sire,” he says.

James’s brow twitches in impatience. “And what of _Qrow,_ Tyrian?”

“Unharmed, my lord.” Tyrian stands up straight, heels clicked together and his arms spread. “As I said, no blood, no sign of a body being dragged. A show of resistance in the footsteps leading away from this area. The prince remains as feisty as ever.”

James mouth curls in faint distaste. 

“Should we pursue the loser, my king?” asks the soldier at James’s side, a white-haired woman named Winter who had taken the position of captain. 

James exhales, thinking on it, then shakes his head. “If the loser was spared and ran off, they’re in it for money, not political gain. A crime still, to be sure, but not important at the moment. If these men are masters, I don’t want to face them with our numbers dwindled.” He nods at Tyrian. “Lead the way.”

Tyrian smiles wide and bows low, then mounts his horse and leads the group on. After a time, he reins in his horse and dismounts again, following cracked rock and more footprints into a bouldered clearing. 

“A scuffle,” he announces, crouched where Elm had fallen not long ago. “Still no blood. A giant, if this flattened grass is any indication. Our mystery party is quite formidable indeed.” He stands up, tilting his head curiously. “But not overly malicious. How interesting.”

“Keep your wits,” James snaps. His horse stamps its hooves, as if sensing his distress. “Is there any sign of Qrow or not?”

“No, no,” Tyrian hums. “Not here. It seems that the final member of our original band of criminals ran off with him. Patience, Highness.”

A little farther up the way and they find Jacques's body. James jumps down from his horse to check the pulse, and finding him dead, stands and cups his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Qrow!”

His voice echoes across the hillside, but he gets no answer. 

“Hm, hm,” Tyrian says, slipping from his horse and examining the abandoned goblets and the little container left behind next to them. “Poison, I’d bet. Hard to say which sort. There’s no smell.” 

“Qrow, where are you?!” James calls, louder.

“My king,” Tyrian says, bowing low. “Please, observe.” 

James glances back and finds Tyrian motioning to an abandoned blindfold and cut ropes. “He was freed?” he asks, frowning.

“It seems our mystery party has manners,” Tyrian titters. “Though not enough to return our dear Lord Branwen. Perhaps he would like a ransom?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” James mutters. “If Qrow was freed, he would’ve…” he pauses, purses his lips, then mutters, quieter, “No, he’d be seen. Damn it…”

“Your Majesty,” Winter says, drawing her horse up closer to them. “Ahead of us is the Fire Swamp. No one would dare venture inside, no matter how clever. We should hurry, and cut them off there before they have time to go around.”

James nods sharply and mounts his horse again, taking off quickly down the path. Tyrian smiles, a little tightly, and climbs back onto his horse too. Behind him, his silver scorpion tail curls in barely hidden irritation.

* * *

“That’s the man who killed Robyn’s mom!” Ruby shouts angrily. “I knew I didn’t like him!” 

“Why’s his tail silver?” Yang asks. “I thought Robyn cut it off.”

“It’s called a prosthetic,” Tai answers. “He got a metal one.”

“Why’s he with King James, anyway?” she demands.

“Because he’s only horrible when his queen wants him to be.”

Ruby objects, “His queen? But I thought—” 

“Shhh,” Tai motions for them to settle down again. “Just wait.”

* * *

“Catch your breath,” the man in black says, and shoves Qrow a little unceremoniously against a large stone buried in ground. Qrow stumbles and just barely catches himself, flashing a furious glare at the man. The terrain is rocky here, and although Qrow stumbles over it in his fancy Atlesian shoes, the man in his leather boots walks easily. 

“If you let me go,” Qrow says, “you’ll be paid well. Whatever you could ask for.”

The man laughs, leaning up against another stone. “What makes you think I’d trust your word, Your Majesty? And besides, you don’t know my motive. What makes you think I’m in this for money?”

“Look, buddy, I’m just trying to give you a chance before James catches up to us,” Qrow says flatly. “And he will catch up. The man’s stubborn as a mule, _and_ he’ll be on horseback.”

The man scowls, all humor gone from his face. “You’re that convinced your dearest love is coming to your rescue?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Qrow spits. “I never said he was my dearest love. But he _will_ find us.”

That gives the man a pause. He stands up straight and steps closer, seemingly uncaring of the way Qrow tenses up. “You freely admit you don’t love your fiancé?” he asks, curious.

Qrow’s brows knit in confusion. He can’t understand why the man would care. “He knows I don’t love him,” he says.

“Yet, you marry him.”

“Marriage hardly equals love,” Qrow says dismissively, folding his arms and looking away.

Now, the man scoffs. “And what do you know about love, Your Highness?”

Fury rises hot in Qrow’s chest, and he all but leaps to his feet. “I’ve known love deeper than you could even _fathom,”_ he bites out.

Beneath his mask, the man’s green eyes harden. “Lies don’t become a man as pretty as you,” he says, a bitterness in his voice even as his words are matter-of-fact.

“Lies—!” Qrow starts, but the man has already snatched his wrist and started off down the path again.

A ways on, they stop again. The path is narrow and rocky here still, the sweeping hills on either side tall and dangerous. A fall would hurt. Qrow knows he could fly and avoid injury, but he’s been considering it the whole way down from the cliffs, hatred burning holes into the back of his captor’s head.

“Rest,” the man says, and shoves Qrow against another stone on the path.

Qrow goes down with a grunt and curses his pretty clothes. When he gets back to the castle, he’s going to demand that James let him wear his own garments to court meetings, customs be damned. “I know who you are, you know,” he says. 

The man puts his hands on his hips. “Do you?”

“A cruel bastard like you, as clever and merciless as you are,” Qrow insists. “You’re the Dread Pirate Roberts, aren’t you?”

The man’s mouth quirks at ‘merciless,’ but he doesn’t deny the accusation. Instead, he gives Qrow a sweeping, sarcastic bow. “At your service, Lord Branwen.”

Hot anger washes through Qrow’s body. “At my service,” he says. “Die slowly then, on your own sword.”

“And here I’d believed a damsel like you would be more agreeable,” Roberts sneers. “Why the hatred for me?”

“Why?” Qrow repeats, then, venomous, “You killed my lover.”

An odd look crosses Roberts’s face, or as much of his face as Qrow can see. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he says, turning away. “I’ve killed many lovers.”

Sensibly, Qrow realizes that this is his opportunity to shift and fly away, but now that Roberts has admitted to his identity, he feels rooted in place. The man who took Clover from him, here in the flesh, and for a moment all Qrow can think of is his pain and the desire for revenge that’s been singing in his blood since James gave him the news. “He was an Atlesian general,” he says, sharp and quick in his anger, but his voice goes soft and longing as Clover’s sweet face springs to his memory. “Eyes as green as sea foam and a smile like you’ve never seen.” Then, as if snapping out of it, he grits out, “His ship was bound for Vacuo, for _peace,_ and you attacked him. And the Dread Pirate Roberts never takes prisoners.”

Roberts grins, folding his broad arms behind his head. “I can’t afford to. Once pirates hear their own leader is getting soft, commanding them is such a _hassle—”_

“Do _not_ mock me!” Qrow shouts, on his feet in an instant. “You have no idea the pain you put me through!”

“Anyone who offers you anything better than pain is selling you something,” Roberts snaps. 

“Clover would’ve given me the _moon_ if I’d asked,” Qrow returns sharply, then turns away before his bottom lip trembles. 

Behind him, Roberts goes quiet. Then, after a moment, he says, “I remember your general. What was this, four and a half, five years ago now?” 

Qrow presses his lips together tightly.

“He had an honorable death, if that pleases you any,” Roberts goes on casually. “He didn’t blubber or bargain for his life. He only said ‘please’.”

Qrow grits his teeth. 

“That’s what caught my attention, actually,” Roberts waves his hand dismissively. “‘Please, I must live,’ he said. Naturally, I was curious. I asked him what could be so important that I, the Dread Pirate, should think to spare him. ‘True love’ is what he said. Truer than the sun rises, truer than Polaris points north. And then he spoke, with such reverence, about a man who waited for him, dark-haired, fair, and with eyes like rubies. Lovelier than birdsong, he said. I assume he meant you.”

“Cruel, like I said before,” Qrow rasps. “Opening old wounds instead of killing me outright.”

“You should be glad for his death,” Roberts tells him, and there’s something off there in his voice again, like something stinging just barely held at bay. “True love, he’d called it, and here you are, faithless and set to marry another man.”

Qrow whirls on him, livid, eyes brimming with tears. “I’m to marry James for _politics_ I have little sway in, and it doesn’t matter to me because happiness will never be in my reach again! I died the day I lost him, and _you_ killed us both!” 

Roberts opens his mouth, but whirls towards the sound of horse hooves before he manages to say anything. From the high hills above, they can see the royal party come to a stop, steeds prancing nervously on the skinny path.

“Qrow!” comes James’s urgent cry.

“James!” Qrow shouts back, throwing an arm up to wave to him. 

“Wait—” Roberts starts, turning towards him again, but Qrow snatches his shirt by the collar. 

“Be at my service like you said, murderer,” he hisses, and shoves him from the path. Roberts makes a startled noise and grunts in pain as his back hits the sloped earth and he goes tumbling down. 

Qrow feels a surge of victory, just briefly, until Roberts’s fading voice calls up, “As you wish!” 

For just a moment, the whole world stops. A hundred memories of intimate evenings spent among flowers spring to mind, a hundred more of sea green eyes catching his across dinner tables and meeting rooms. He can almost feel it, the long-absent press of sweet lips just beneath his ear, the whispered declaration of love he’s been missing since that last night they spent in each others arms.

Qrow breathes, “Clover,” and then bursts into feathers.

As he falls, Clover’s mask comes flying off. By the time he comes to a stop at the bottom of the slope, he’s covered in scrapes and scattered bruises, and he only lays there and groans. Qrow swoops above him and shifts again, feet skidding just slightly on his landing before he rushes to Clover’s side.

“You’re alive,” he gasps, throwing his arms around Clover’s shoulders as he sits up.

“Barely,” Clover jokes, grunting as his back twinges.

“That’s not funny,” Qrow says desperately, and Clover laughs.

“I told you I would return to you,” he says, soft, and cups Qrow’s face. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“You were _dead,”_ Qrow says with a little quake in his voice. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Oh, pretty bird,” Clover murmurs. “As if death could keep me from you. Don’t cry, love, I’m sorry.”

“I missed you so much, you bastard,” Qrow says, happy tears spilling over, and kisses Clover hard for the first time in years.

* * *

“I knew it!” Yang exclaims. “I knew it was him!” 

“I’m so glad he’s alive,” Ruby sighs in relief. 

Tai laughs. “What gave it away, Yang?”

“You did!” she says, rolling her eyes. “You said the man in black wanted the prince all for himself, so _obviously_ he was already in love with him.”

“Oh, I’ve said too much,” Tai says dramatically, holding his hand up to his forehead to feign a swoon. “The story’s ruined, I can’t go on—” 

Two overeager shouts of “Dad, you _better_ finish!” and “Keep going, keep going!” assault his ears, and after a lot of laughter and settling back into bed with eager eyes, Tai begins again.

* * *

“You want to take me _where?”_ Qrow demands.

“The Fire Swamp,” Clover says easily, keeping up his brisk pace. Qrow is still struggling to keep up in his terrible shoes, but Clover’s holding his hand tight, so he supposes it’s not that bad. “It’s the only way we can lose your _darling_ fiancé.”

Qrow wrinkles his nose. “Don’t say it like that,” he complains. “The Fire Swamp is suicide, and besides, we can’t evade him forever. I’ll have to go back to make sure Vacuo isn’t blamed for my kidnapping.”

Clover glances at him. “Why would Vacuo be blamed?”

“That was their plan, to whisk me off to Vacuo and kill me there. They wanted to start a war.” 

Clover frowns. “All three of them were Atlesian,” he says. 

“Apparently,” Qrow sighs, “There’s some whole plot with some dastardly mistress pulling the strings. That man you poisoned? Jacques Schnee was his name. Pretty sure he’s an Atlesian aristocrat. Would’ve benefited his profits to have Atlas go to war.” His voice drops to a disgusted mutter. “Can’t imagine how much more money he could possibly want, with James keeping the army the size that it is.”

“And they figured killing you would be enough to get James to declare war,” Clover says thoughtfully. “Would King Ozma—”

“Declare war to get revenge for my death? Doubtful. He wouldn’t blame an entire country for the actions of a few. Now James…he’s bullheaded enough for it.”

Clover keeps his eyes cast ahead, at the looming trees growing ever nearer. “Are you very certain he isn’t in love with you?”

“Are you jealous, lucky charm?” Qrow croons. 

Clover sighs. “I’m back in your life for hardly an hour, and already, you torment me.”

“You deserve it for putting me through hell. How are you alive, anyway?” 

Clover drops his hand and peers into the swamp, then takes a few cautious steps past the treeline. When nothing jumps out to bite him, he turns back and offers Qrow his hand again. “I didn’t lie before,” he says, pulling Qrow closer before pressing on. “I really did tell Roberts about you. Thing is, the man who attacked my ship wasn’t Roberts at all.”

“No?”

“In fact, neither was the man who commanded the ship before him, or even before that man. The real Dread Pirate Roberts retired decades ago. Whenever a ship captain wants to retire, he docks in a port, changes out his crew, and leaves a new Roberts behind in his place.” He glances back to grin over his shoulder. Qrow’s heart flutters. “No one would be threatened by a Dread Pirate Clover.”

He draws his sword to hack away at thick vines blocking their path. “So, when my ship was capsized, and I regaled that Roberts with tales about my _dazzling love,_ he took an interest in me. He listened to my stories, then locked me up and told me he’d likely kill me in the morning. And he said that near every night for three years. And all the while I’m learning back-alley sword techniques and styles from across the seas, and more about sailing than my military branch ever saw fit to teach me. We became friends, and eventually, he told me his secret, and made me the new Dread Pirate.”

“You really charmed your way out of death and into the most notorious position in the seas,” Qrow says, incredulous.

Clover winks at him, grin widening when Qrow flushes. “You doubt me?”

Qrow can’t help his smile. “I suppose not,” he says, though his smile vanishes after a moment. “Do you hear that?”

Clover stops. There’s a bubbling noise nearby, and he nods when he catches it. 

Qrow swallows and steps closer to him. Just as he does, fire bursts from the ground where he was mere seconds ago, and catches the tail end of his scarlet cape.

“Shit!” Qrow yelps, and Clover quickly tosses him to the ground and stomps the flames out against the damp earth. 

“Are you alright?” he asks tenderly, helping Qrow to his feet. “Were you burned?”

“No,” Qrow rasps, trying to get his breath back while his heart pounds behind his ribs, and he tries not to look visibly shaken. Smoky tendrils curl from the edges of his cape, the fabric scorched and tattered. “Clover, this is insane. No one survives this place. It’d be safer to just meet James in the clearing.”

“I think we should meet him when I’m not in danger of being shot,” Clover says simply. “And besides—” the earth beneath them bubbles again, and Clover steps away, twirling Qrow into his arms just as fire bursts forth. He smiles crookedly, tilts his head down enough to brush their noses together. “I’m _very_ good.”

“You’re cocky as hell, is what you are,” Qrow corrects, suddenly not entirely sure that he didn’t catch fire after all. Still, the confidence settles some of the worry in his chest. He clears his throat then, pulling away from Clover’s broad chest, because now is hardly the time to be daydreaming about taking him to bed again. “How did you know I was being abducted?”

Now it’s Clover’s turn to flush. “I may have, uh…snuck onto palace grounds. I saw you in the gardens from a distance, but they’d snatched you before I could get close.”

“Oh, for gods’ sakes,” Qrow pinches his brow. “If a masked man had been seen sneaking onto palace grounds, all of Atlas would’ve been talking about an assassination attempt by morning.”

Clover raises his hands in a playful shrug and steps on, over tree roots and onto a small clear patch of sandy ground. “And now they will be anyway, won’t they? No harm done.”

Qrow eyes the ground, then suddenly cries, “Wait!” And just like that, Clover vanishes into a pit of sand, sword clattering to firmer swampground just a spot to the right.

“Clover!” Qrow shouts, eyes darting around in panic as he snatches the sword up from the ground. He finds a sturdy enough vine and cuts it loose, pulls it down and twines it around his arm, then dives into the pit. 

For a long, terrible moment, the swamp is silent but for gurgling fires and the low rumble of far off beasts. Then—

Qrow bursts forth, groaning with the effort of pulling both of them up by one arm. Clover, holding tight to his waist, finally gets an arm above the pit and grabs at the vine to help, and they manage to drag themselves back onto solid ground, where they collapse and spit up sand.

“I’ll never understand,” Clover chokes out, “where the hell you hide all that muscle.”

“We’re going to die in here,” Qrow coughs, “and all you can do is tease me about being skinny.”

Clover only replies, “Ugh,” and sits up to shake the sand out of his hair and brush it from his eyes. He sees to Qrow next, sweeping sand from his cheeks as gently as he can. “Have a little faith, pretty bird. We won’t die.”

Qrow leans into his hand even as he scowls. “And how do you figure that?”

“Because I love you,” Clover answers, drawing Qrow into his arms to brush the sand from his hair, “and that’s kept me alive thus far.” 

“You’re insufferable,” Qrow mutters into his shoulder, but he squeezes Clover’s middle tight.

Clover goes very still suddenly, and then slowly climbs to his feet, bringing Qrow up with him. “We should move,” he says with a bit of urgency, turning away from the pit and tugging Qrow along as he picks up his sword.

“It’d be quicker to turn back,” Qrow insists, still shaking sand out of his clothes. 

“The end of the swamp can’t be much farther. Besides, now we’ve seen the fire geysers, so we can avoid that—” as if on cue, he spins Qrow away from a spurt of flames, graceful as a dancer, “—and we’ve seen the quicksand, so we can avoid that too.”

“And what about the G.O.U.S.?” Qrow asks dryly.

“Grimm of Unusual Size?” Clover asks thoughtfully. “I don’t think they exist.”

This, of course, is the perfect time for a Grimm to leap out of the shadows and sink its teeth into his shoulder.

Clover yells in pain and falls to the swamp floor, sword clattering from his hand as he brings both arms up to hold the creature back from snapping at his face. Qrow curses and leaps back in surprise. Clover wrestles with the beast, pushing it up just in time for its bone white teeth to narrowly miss his throat, but it just sinks them into his arm instead. He cries out again, blood running down in rivulets. 

“Get off of him!” Qrow shouts, and kicks the Grimm in the ribs so hard that it yelps and goes tumbling. Clover groans and grips his arm, rolling onto his side and gritting his teeth. 

But the Grimm, comfortable in its own turf, only rolls to its feet and turns on Qrow, who suddenly really wishes he had his own sword on him. 

He backs away, his heel catching on a raised tree root and sending him sprawling to the swamp floor. “Clover!” he calls, panic rising in his chest.

The Grimm lunges, maw open and hungry. Qrow shuts his eyes, but a yowl of pain from the Grimm makes him peek; Clover stands over it with his sword buried between its shoulder blades, jaw tight as he leans heavily towards his uninjured side.

The Grimm wheezes. Clover twists his blade and yanks it out, and the beast goes still. 

Qrow is on his feet in an instant. “You’re hurt,” he breathes, hands hovering over Clover’s arm. The wound is jagged and pocked where the beasts teeth sank in and tore at the skin, a dark and clotting red that makes nausea well up in Qrow’s throat.

“I’ll survive,” Clover rasps, and does very well of keeping the discomfort off his face. 

“Don’t pretend for me,” Qrow scolds, then reaches back to grab his cape, ripping it near the end and folding it up so any burnt material isn’t exposed. “Hold still,” he murmurs, tying the cloth above Clover’s elbow to stave off the bleeding. “That’ll do for now, I think.” 

There’s a pause. Then, Clover cups Qrow’s face and nudges a kiss against his cheek. “Come on, let’s keep going,” he says gently, eyes softening when Qrow goes pink. “We’re almost through.”

While Clover and Qrow make their way through the swamp, James and his soldiers come to a stop at the edge of it. 

“Damn him!” James swears. “Why in hell would he take Qrow in there?”

“Sire, if I may,” Count Tyrian says, over-placating. “I suggest you return to the castle.”

Furious blue eyes land on him in an instant. “I’m _not_ leaving him to—”

“Oh, heaven’s forbid, Majesty, I would never suggest it,” Tyrian says quickly. “But we simply can’t risk the life of our king to pursue them this way.” He gives another of his sweeping bows, or as much of one as he can manage on horseback. “Allow me to pursue them once they reach the end of the swamp. Have General Schnee escort you back, and leave the rest of the party with me. We’ll retrieve Lord Branwen.”

James’s brows knit. Winter frowns and looks to him for orders.

“If the kingdom would be in shambles at the death of its prince,” Tyrian points out, heavily sympathetic, and places his hand over his heart, “what would the death of its king do, heirless as you are?”

James presses his lips together, then closes his eyes and exhales. “Very well,” he says. “Schnee, escort me. And you,” he points at Tyrian, voice commanding and mouth severe. “Do not return without him.”

“Yes, Highness,” Tyrian answers with another bow and too-wide grin, and rides off along the edge of the swamp while James and Winter turn back towards the castle.

* * *

“I do _not_ like that man,” Ruby says firmly. 

“Nobody does,” Tai agrees solemnly.

“Why does James trust that guy?” Yang objects. “He seems skeezy to me.”

“It’s not that he trusts him,” Tai corrects. “It’s just that he’s useful.”

“I still think it’s dumb to have him around,” she says, folding her arms. Ruby nods in agreement. Tai goes on.

* * *

“That wasn’t so bad,” Clover says, cheerful for someone with a bite wound in his arm. 

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life,” Qrow argues as they finally make it back into a dry grove of trees. “My clothes are burned, I’ve got sand in places I didn’t know sand could get into, you’re bleeding all over the place—” 

“But we’re alive,” Clover says triumphantly. He brings their laced fingers up to his mouth to kiss Qrow’s knuckles. “And I have you. I’d consider that a success.”

Qrow gives him a look that’s half-amused and half-exasperated, and reaches out to tip Clover’s chin up. “Your endless optimism is just as annoying as I remember.”

“You love me,” Clover objects, and Qrow just hums and leans in to kiss him. 

And, by some terrible stroke of luck, they are again interrupted by thundering hooves. 

Atlesian soldiers suddenly seem to pour from the trees, some on horseback and some on foot, all holding weapons. Clover lifts his sword and steps in front of Qrow protectively, but Qrow leans over his shoulder and shouts, “Stop! I’m fine, leave him!”

No one listens. The soldiers circle around them and press close with blades and crossbows, maces and batons. Qrow wraps an arm around Clover’s middle and digs his fingers into Clover’s shirt, desperate to feel prepared for something he can’t stop.

“Well, well,” Count Tyrian says, near sing-song, and rides up calmly. “Lord Branwen, aren’t you the most difficult man to find.”

“Fuck off, Callows,” Qrow spits. “Where’s James?”

“Returned to the castle, upon my insistence,” Tyrian informs him. He grins like a snake, eyes snapping to Qrow’s hold on Clover. “Ah, but what’s this? Is the king’s bride-to-be disloyal?”

“Don’t be stupid. You know who this is.”

Clover flashes a grin and gives a two-fingered salute. “Nice to see you all again, gentlemen,” he says, though the tension never leaves his shoulders.

“Mm,” Tyrian says, self-satisfied, “I can’t say I know a scoundrel such as this. What do you think, boys?” 

Chuckles go around the group. Qrow realizes abruptly that they’re in much deeper shit than he thought.

“In any case,” Tyrian goes on dismissively, “I’m afraid I’ve been forbidden to return without Lord Branwen in my custody. So, once we dispose of this one, we’ll simply be on our way.”

From one of the soldiers carrying a mace, Qrow whirls and steals the sword from his belt. Tyrian’s horse startles at the movement and many of the men take a step back. Red eyes flash brighter than they have in five years, and Qrow growls, “Touch him, and I’ll cut you to pieces.”

For a moment, silence, save for the audible absence of clicking armor as everyone goes still. Then: Tyrian grins, and Clover’s breath hitches ever so slightly. 

Qrow chances a glance back, and finds one of the bowmen has an arrowhead against the back of Clover’s neck. One twitch of the trigger, and—

Qrow grits his teeth and lowers his sword just slightly. “If I return with you,” he asks, “will you let him return to his ship?”

“Qrow,” Clover says through his teeth. “Don’t.”

“Oh, of _course,_ Highness,” Tyrian promises, placing a hand over his heart to swear it. “Anything for our darling prince. The king is so terribly worried about you, you know. Shall we, then?”

 _“Qrow,”_ Clover says again, sharply.

“I can’t watch you die,” Qrow murmurs, eyes downcast, the stolen sword falling to his side in defeat before he surrenders it back to the soldier he’d taken it from. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

A soldier scoops Qrow up onto his horse and rides off before he even has a chance to say goodbye. He looks back as the distance spans between them, mournful red meeting desperate green before Qrow disappears into the trees and the soldiers close in around Clover to disarm and bind him.

“Well, General Ebi,” Tyrian says, grinning with all his teeth. “Or, _ex-General_ _,_ I should say…let’s get you back to your ship, shall we?”

Clover lifts his chin in defiance, a knowing smile on his face. “Come on now, Callows. It’s not really becoming of men of action like us to tell lies, is it?”

Tyrian titters. “Well, glad we can be straightforward with each other.” Then, to a silver-haired soldier, “Take him to the Pit of Despair,” before he rides off after Qrow and his escort.

Clover’s expression hardens before a soldier strikes him in the back of the head, and everything goes dark.

* * *

“Why’d he do that!” Yang demands, more of an angry cry than a real question. “He recognized Clover!”

“Because Tyrian is much, much worse than anyone tends to think he is,” Tai answers.

“Is Clover gonna get hurt?” Ruby asks, silver eyes wide and maybe a little nervous.

“Do you really want to know right now?” Tai asks. 

“Um,” Ruby starts, unsure, and Yang pipes up, “Is this going to have a happy ending?”

Tai smiles. “Yeah, it will.”

The girls look at each other, then nod and meet his eyes expectantly. Tai smiles and flips the page.

* * *

Qrow all but jumps from the soldier’s horse and storms to James’s office. He hears Tyrian dismount and stalk after him, and can’t help but feel on edge with the man at his back.

The guards at James’s door straighten as he approaches. “Your Highness—!”

“Out of my way,” Qrow barks, flinging the doors open and storming inside.

“Dear, dear me,” Tyrian snickers, and shuts the door behind them. 

James looks up sharply from where he’s reading and signing papers, stress-lines set deep in his brow. “Qrow!” he exclaims, face going slack with shock as he jumps up, rushing to Qrow’s side. He holds Qrow’s shoulder in one hand and cups his face in the other, fretting while he looks him over. “Are you hurt?” 

Qrow bats his hands away. “I’m fine, let me be.”

“There’s blood on your clothes!” 

Qrow looks down at his shirt and feels his heart seize up. Blood has seeped into the fabric from when he’d held Clover tight before their capture. “It’s not mine.”

“He has a concussion, Majesty,” Tyrian pipes up, a little too helpfully. “The kidnappers knocked him over the head, you see.”

“I’m fine,” Qrow repeats, and in the back of his mind, he wonders how Tyrian knew that. “James, listen to me. Clover’s alive.”

James goes very still, mouth falling open. After a moment, he lowers his hands and exhales. “…Qrow,” he starts, gently.

“I’m not crazy,” Qrow insists. 

“Qrow, I know you miss him, but the Dread Pirate Roberts has never taken any prisoners.”

“He does sometimes, apparently!” Qrow says, tossing his hands up. “I’m not crazy, James. I saw him. I held him. He was _there,_ and he saved me.” He turns and points an accusing finger towards Tyrian, a snarl on his mouth. “And this snake tried to have him killed. _Again.”_

There’s a long silence. Then, from Tyrian, “I’m sure the prince is quite exhausted, Your Majesty. Being kidnapped is quite a traumatizing experience, even without a head injury.”

“I’m not tired!” Qrow snaps, raising his voice. He turns back to James. “You tracked me as far as the Fire Swamp yourself, didn’t you? Where’s the man that took me there? You _saw_ him, James. The man in the mask.”

James glances at Tyrian. “Well?”

“The man ran off, Highness.” Tyrian says. “The rest of the men stayed behind to search for him.”

“Liar!” Qrow hisses. “You gave me your word that you’d return Clover to his ship, but you didn’t, did you? What did you do to him?”

James exhales and pinches his brow, looking like he might go grayer by the minute. “Qrow,” he says, trying for gentle again. “You need to see the palace doctor if you were injured. You’re exhausted, and you need a bath—”

“I don’t need a gods-damned bath, I need to know what they did with Clover!”

“Clover is _dead,_ Qrow.”

“He’s not!” Qrow shouts. 

James presses his lips together. After a moment, he sighs and says, “Alright. If you’re convinced Tyrian has done something, let’s go check the dungeons to see if he’s there.” 

Qrow feels a spike of fear in his gut. Clover won’t be there, and he knows it. Tyrian knows it too, if his sleazy smile is anything to go by. That’s going to make him lose credibility here. Still, because there may be the smallest, tiniest chance, he nods, and a small escort of guards takes them to the dungeons. 

“He’s not here,” Qrow says after he briskly walks the rows of cells. He’s partly glad for it, glad that Clover isn’t wounded and kept in this filthy, dark place full of awful criminals. “But I knew he wouldn’t be. They wouldn’t bring him here where he could be recognized—” 

James puts a hand on his shoulder. “Qrow,” he says quietly. “Please, just…see the doctor. I know you’re upset, but I need to make sure you’re safe and healthy.” 

“Clover isn’t here,” Qrow insists. “Listen to me. Even if I _was_ crazy, and it wasn’t him, that man who took me into the swamp was still with me when your men found me. You think he could’ve escaped from that many soldiers, and while he was injured? The blood on my shirt is his.”

James blinks, then frowns and chews his lip, thinking it over. 

“Your Majesty,” Tyrian starts, having remained suspiciously quiet all the while. 

“I’m not sure what you’re hiding,” James says, turning to face him with squared shoulders, authority in his voice, “but something here doesn’t add up. If I find you’ve deceived me, it won’t bode well for you.” He turns back to Qrow, folding his hands behind his back. “Since this is so important to you, I’ll send four groups to the swamp and have them fan out in each direction to look for that man. But only on the condition that you see the doctor and get some rest. Agreed?”

Qrow’s sure the relief on his face is plain, and hope swells in him. “Agreed.”

A tiny bit of tension—just a tiny bit, mind you, but noticeable all the same—bleeds out of James’s shoulders. Tyrian says nothing, and smiles a strained smile even as the smugness never leaves his beady eyes.

While Qrow sees the palace doctor, Clover also has his wounds tended to, but for far less pleasant reasons.

He blinks awake to dim lighting, and tries to reach up to rub at his temples before he realizes he’s been restrained. The surface underneath him is hard and uncomfortable and the chilly air smells putrid, like sour death and old flesh. 

Someone places something cool against his arm. It stings. Clover hisses.

“Ah, he’s awake,” comes a posh voice. Clover blinks again and turns to find a skinny man with a bushy mustache standing over him, holding a bowl of water and dabbing a wet cloth against his wound. 

“Where am I?” Clover rasps. 

“Why, the Pit of Despair!” The man sets the cloth back in the bowl and sweeps his arm out at the room. “My laboratory. My name is Arthur Watts, and I study pain.”

Clover squints and wracks his memory, then curls his lip in distaste. “Weren’t you banished from Atlas years ago for human rights violations?”

“Ah,” Watts says, pleased. “You’ve heard of my work.”

“I’ve read enough to know you’re lacking in the empathy department.”

“I’m a _scientist,_ thank you. Just because my work is a topic of controversy doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be studied.”

“Right,” Clover drawls. “So why am I here, exactly, and not dead?”

Now Watts sighs and resumes cleaning his wound. “Because Count Callows wishes it so. If you want to see a true sadist, look to him. He assists me with my work because he enjoys the misery of others. Truthfully, I would rather he stay as far from my lab as humanly possible, but he does bring me specimens to work with, so, alas.”

“Why treat my injuries, then?”

“Well, I can hardly gather accurate data if you begin the study already damaged.”

 _Damaged,_ like he’s a ruined good instead of a person. Having heard enough, Clover pulls at his restraints.

“Oh, don’t bother,” Watts says with a roll of his eyes. “Larger men than you have tried. And don’t expect to be rescued, either. Only I, the Count, and his favored subordinate knows where the entrance is.”

“So what, then? You just keep me here and torture me until the end of my days?”

“Yes, if you want to put it that way.”

Clover lifts his chin. Laying down, the effect is lost. “I’m not afraid of pain.”

Watts laughs. “I’m sure you’re very brave, General…Ebi, was it? But no one can withstand my machine. You see,” he sets the bowl down and motions to its various parts, the currently still water pump and the many layers of gears and pulleys. “What my machine does is drain life, much like the suction pump drains water. It’s my greatest work—took me half a lifetime to create it. So, if you would, I’d like it if you were completely open and honest with me about its effects when the time comes, hm?”

In the days it takes for Clover’s wounds to heal, Qrow remains restless. His sleep is plagued with nightmares, or he hardly sleeps at all, and his appetite is gone from him. He looks pale and lacks attentiveness, and feels very much like he did those first few days after Clover had been taken from him the first time.

Ten days before the royal wedding, Qrow bolts upright in bed, having dreamt of walking down the aisle with blood on his hands. Flushed and stricken, he pulls on silken robes and rushes to James’s office, where the king is up late once more with both celebration plans and spy reports.

“James—” Qrow says, and then cuts himself off when he realizes how fragile he sounds.

James looks up, eyes wide when he sees Qrow’s state of dress and his ghastly face. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“I…” Qrow starts, then swallows. Sweat from his nightmare is still beading at his temple, and the cool air of James’s office is near enough to make him feel as ill as he imagines he looks. He swallows a second time, jaw tight, then says with conviction, “I love Clover. I’ve always loved him.”

James’s blue eyes flit over his face. “I know,” he says slowly, unsure of where Qrow is going with this.

“So I can’t marry you,” Qrow says, and when his hands shake at his side, he tightens his fingers in his robes. “If he’s still alive, he’ll come for me before the wedding, I know it. But if…if something’s happened to him, if he doesn’t…I can’t go through with it. You should know that if he doesn’t come for me, and I must marry you, I’ll be dead the morning after.”

James leans back in his chair, face darkening before he props his arms on his desk and hides his mouth behind laced fingers. After a long moment of silence, he asks, “Do you hate me that much?”

Qrow’s brows knit even tighter than they were. “I don’t hate you at all. This isn’t about you, James. I just can’t…”

James stands, folds his hands behind his back like he wishes to hide his emotions there, like he always does. “You have…people who would miss you, Qrow. Your family back in Vale, your friends there…I would. The court would be in uproar if I cancel the wedding now. What would you have me do?” 

“There’s nothing you _can_ do, James, if he isn’t found.”

“Will it pain you less if we sleep in separate rooms?”

“You still don’t believe me,” Qrow says tightly. He has shed enough tears; his body feels dry of them. He doesn’t want to cry here, in front of other eyes. “I lost him once already. I can’t lose him twice, not after he was in my arms again, as brief as it was.”

James exhales, then reaches up to rub a hand down his face. He is still unshaven. “If he doesn’t come in ten days,” he says, meeting Qrow’s eyes again, “I would ask that you marry me, and instead of suicide…wait, and let me keep trying to find him.”

Qrow blinks, frown settling heavy on his mouth as he looks away.

“I don’t want to see you die, Qrow,” James says. “But if you want me to have the resources to dedicate to finding one man across the continents, I need to pacify the court. Is that acceptable to you?”

Qrow opens his mouth, then takes a shaking breath and wraps his arms around himself. “Yes.”

James’s shoulders slump slightly with relief. “Good,” he says, and starts to make an attempt at comfort before a knock interrupts him.

“Your Majesty,” General Schnee says as she enters, thought she pauses when she sees Qrow. “Apologies, Your Highnesses. I’ll return when—”

“Don’t bother,” Qrow mutters. “I was just leaving.”

James presses his lips together, then, as Qrow turns away, asks gently, “Do you want me to walk you back to your room?” 

Qrow stops in the doorway. “No,” he murmurs. Then, after a pause, “Thank you,” before he disappears down the hall.

James exhales, then addresses his General. “You have news for me?” 

She nods. “The squadrons you sent out towards the Fire Swamp,” she says. “They found signs of struggle and tracked hoofprints back north, into Atlas territory again. Not far from the city, actually. But the tracks only lead into small grove before they head back here. The stablehands claim to have not seen anything, and none of the soldiers from the Count’s forces that day will give up any unusual information, either. I can’t make sense of it.”

James frowns. Something isn’t right about this whole ordeal, but he can’t seem to put his finger on what. “Where was this grove?”

“Near the Thieves Forest, Highness.”

James folds his hands behind his back and slowly paces the length of his office and back again. Finally, he says, “Put a brute squad together. Clear the Forest out before the day of the wedding. If any man is found matching Clover Ebi’s description, bring him here.”

Winter looks surprised, but quickly salutes. “At your command, Your Majesty.”

While the brute squad tends to the Thieves’ Forest, Count Tyrian slips down to Watts’s lab, unseen. 

“Please don’t touch anything I don’t tell you to, this time,” Watts says tiredly. 

Tyrian is largely ignoring him. Clover watches in growing irritation as the man skitters around the examination table, giggling quietly in excitement. “This is going to be fun,” he wheezes. “So much fun.”

Clover pulls at his restraints again. Watts has strapped hard leather across his chest and his waistline, and more still around his forehead and holding his jaw shut. Held in place under the straps are those suction cups, and those are attached to Watts’s horrible machine. 

“Don’t touch that,” Watts snaps, batting Tyrian’s hand away from one of the suction cups stuck to Clover’s belly. “For gods’ sakes.” He clears his throat and folds his hands neatly in front of him, then, in the voice of someone giving a grand presentation, tells Clover, “I’m going to start you off at the lowest setting and work my way up. I’ve never made it past five, so I’m not entirely sure what that will do to you, but I suppose we’ll see if you even make it that far.”

Clover just stares back at him with defiance in his eyes. Watts checks over his setup once more, then nods in satisfaction and takes a seat at his desk. “Level one, please,” he says to Tyrian.

With a little burst of maniacal laughter, Tyrian lifts a lever that scales up to fifty to the first setting. Water pours over the waterwheel and the machine groans, gears clanking and grinding against each other. 

The agony tingles around the contact points at first and then rushes in all at once. Clover lets both men have one more furious glare before he closes his eyes to bear it, little more than grunts of pain escaping him even as his body spasms and shudders under the pressure. He thinks, as long as he can, about Qrow’s gemstone eyes before his thoughts wash a throbbing white.

It seems like it lasts for an eternity. When the machine is finally shut off, the first thing that bleeds back to his senses is Tyrian’s gleeful giggles.

“Can you tell me how you feel?” Watts presses. “And remember, this is for science, so be as honest as you possibly can.”

Silence. Then, a quiet whimper.

“Interesting,” Watts says, and writes that down.

* * *

“Who’s going to rescue him?” Ruby blurts out. “Someone has to!”

Tai pauses. “Well,” he says, “Nobody.”

“He escapes though, right?” Yang asks, looking worried for the first time.

“I already gave too much away the last time I gave you a hint,” Tai says firmly. “Do you still want to hear the rest?”

The girls nod, so Tai continues.

* * *

The day of the wedding swiftly approaches. The Thieves’ Forest is nearly clear save for a swordswoman who can’t be moved. She bites into an apple as she cuts another soldier down, three already littering the ground. 

“Giant!” the fifth yells, and Robyn is on him in a flash, sword slashing an angry gash at his belly. The soldier gurgles and collapses; at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her, Robyn whirls, weapon ever ready and her apple still in hand, but pauses when she sees who it is. “You!” she exclaims.

“Oh!” says Elm. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Jacques told us to return here if something went wrong,” Robyn says, shrugging. “So here I am. What are you doing here with them?” 

“Jacques is dead,” Elm says. “I’m not sure what killed him, but I saw his body. So I got another job.”

“As a soldier?”

Now Elm shrugs. “They were hiring for a brute squad,” she says. “It wasn’t hard to get them to let me join.”

Robyn hums and takes another bite of her apple. “Fair enough,” she says. 

Elm hesitates, scratching the back of her neck, then says, “I was hoping I’d see you again. I saw your scorpion man. His tail is metal, now.”

The apple falls from Robyn’s palm. 

“He’s a count,” Elm tells her. “One of King James’s best hunters, apparently. He was at the castle when we left, but there are extra guards posted there for the wedding today. You know, since the prince was kidnapped.”

Robyn is shaking. She sheathes her sword, runs a hand through her bangs, paces briskly and then kicks hard at one of the fallen soldier’s helmets. “How many men?” she demands. 

“At least thirty,” Elm says. 

“How many could you—” Robyn cuts off, then looks away, distraught.

Elm smiles. “I could probably handle ten.”

Robyn looks up sharply. “You’d go with me?”

“It’s your life’s quest, isn’t it?”

Robyn’s eyes widen before she nods abruptly and resumes her pacing. “That would leave twenty for me, then. Even at my best, I couldn’t take on that many. We need another set of hands. And…hell, there would only be more inside. And…this count—” 

“Tyrian Callows, his name was.”

“Callows,” Robyn spits, like the name is a swear, “will likely be at the ceremony. Getting to him would be near impossible. I need a better plan.”

Elm scratches her chin. “That man was clever,” she says. “The one who beat us both. I’d guess he beat Jacques too, somehow. Not that he was the pinnacle of genius, but he knew enough to be able to kidnap a prince right off palace grounds.”

Robyn brightens. “That’s true. Then we have to find him!” 

“How?”

“Don’t bother me with the little details,” Robyn declares, fire in her eyes. “My mother’s soul will rest after twenty years, and I _will_ have blood tonight!” 

Now, in the castle, completely oblivious to the fact that two formidable women are plotting his death, Count Tyrian stalks the halls, giddy on the torture he’s had the pleasure of witnessing over the last few days. He only pauses when Qrow walks past, gaze downcast and brow knit tight with worry, and he can’t help saying, “Shouldn’t you be more cheerful on your wedding day, Prince?”

Qrow stops short, eyes coming alive with fury. He’s still in plain clothes, not yet dressed for the ceremony, though his hair has already been meticulously brushed into place and his skin is already smelling of roses. “If you have the gall to speak to me,” he grits out, “it should only be to tell me that you’ve informed James of all your lies.”

Tyrian grins with all his teeth. “Lies, Highness? Why, I can’t seem to recall what you mean.”

“Don’t play innocent, you slimy bastard.” Qrow stands tall, squaring his shoulders and wishing he had a sword at his side. “You found me too easily, so I know you had something to do with my kidnapping. I know that whatever traitorous bitch those three worked for is pulling your strings too, and I _know_ you’ve done something with Clover.”

Tyrian’s face instantly goes dark. “Hold your tongue, trash,” he hisses. “Or you’ll regret it.”

“Oh, did that strike a nerve? Was it the accusation? The comment about your mistress? Whoever has your worship, you think she favors a snake like you? The second you stop being useful—”

Tyrian grabs Qrow’s arm, and Qrow feels something needle-sharp prod into his side. “I told you to hold your tongue!” he snaps, forcing Qrow down the hall and back to his chambers.

“Hey!” Qrow objects, and Tyrian shoves him inside, slams the door, and turns the lock. Inside, Qrow rams his body against the door. “Let me out!” 

“You should’ve kept your mouth shut,” Tyrian snarls through the door. “Considering I’m the only one who knows where your _precious_ beloved is.”

From the other side, shocked silence, and then the beating on the door resumes at twice the urgency. “Tyrian Callows, I swear to the gods, if you touch him, I’ll kill you!” 

“Ah, but that’s the best part!” Tyrian calls as he steps away. “You’d never know!”

“Callows! Don’t you dare walk away from me! Don’t you dare touch him, you hear me?! _Callows!_ ”

Tyrian leaves the castle briskly, anger and impulsive spite prickling at him as he rides through the snowy forest. He dismounts at a safe distance, runs the rest of the way to the secret entrance in a dead, knobby tree, and rushes down the stairs when the pathway opens. 

“What are you doing back so soon?” Watts demands, rising from his desk and his stacks of meticulous notes.

Tyrian ignores him, instead nearly flying to stoop over Clover. “Your little bird is terribly infuriating, did you know that?” he says, voice near trembling and wild. Clover’s expression twists, rage surfacing in his tired green eyes. “He loves you so deeply, I can tell. If things were different, you two sweethearts may have been the happiest pair I’ve ever laid eyes on.” His smile turns cruel and wicked. “So I think it’s fitting then, for you to suffer more than anyone I’ve ever laid eyes on, too.”

And with that, he whirls and flings the machine’s lever up to fifty.

“Are you insane?!” Watts shouts, but his objection is lost over the roar of machinery, the water wheel pounding faster than it ever has and the gears rattling so hard that it sounds like the whole thing might come apart.

And Clover howls, so loudly that his cry echoes throughout the kingdom, all the way to the castle where the sound is only drowned out in Qrow’s chambers as he flings himself and anything not bolted down at the door, and all the way to the Thieves’ Forest and the nearby village where Robyn and Elm have stopped to eat before beginning their search.

“Did you hear that?” Robyn asks, jumping up from her seat. 

“It’d be hard not to,” Elm says, rising with her. “Where are you going?”

“That’s the man in black, I know it,” Robyn says with conviction. “That’s the sound of ultimate agony, Elm. It’s the same sound I made when my mother was killed. Who else would it be, if not the man whose true love is set to marry the king this evening?”

“How do you know the prince is his true love?” Elm asks, following Robyn out the door. 

“You think a man would chase us all down with such passion for someone he didn’t love more than his own life? Now hurry up, before that sound stops!” 

Back at the castle, James tears down the hall with two guards at his side and quickly opens the door to Qrow’s chambers. Qrow comes flying out, stricken and with tears streaming down his face.

“Qrow!” James exclaims, catching him before he can tumble to the floor. “What on earth—” 

“James,” Qrow gasps out, mid-sob, fingers tight in James’s sleeves. “James, he’s going to kill him, please, you have to stop him—” 

“What are you talking about?”

“Tyrian! He locked me in here, he said he was the only one who knew where Clover was and that I’d regret talking back to him, _please—_ ” 

“Alright, calm down,” James soothes, smoothing Qrow’s wild hair. “Why did Tyrian lock you in your room?”

“He’s—” Qrow’s breath hitches, tears still falling freely. “He’s working for someone else, a woman, that’s all I know. She’s the one who had me kidnapped. He’s smitten with her or something, I don’t fucking know, and I said…oh god, I’ve killed him. He’s going to kill Clover—”

“Qrow,” James says firmly, “Calm down. I’ll have Callows found, I promise.” He moves his metal hand to Qrow’s shoulder, and lifts it away quickly when Qrow flinches. “Gods, you’re all bruised.” He nods sharply to his guards. “Find Schnee, tell her to locate and arrest Tyrian Callows immediately.”

The guards nod and rush off. In their absence, James softens, and places a hand on Qrow’s back. “Let’s get you to the infirmary,” he murmurs. 

Back in the little grove of trees, Watts scowls fiercely and rolls a wheelbarrow around to the secret entrance, muttering to himself about his lost specimen. “Impulsive moron,” he grumbles. “Up to fifty, didn’t I tell him even five was too high? My ears are still ringing, that reckless piece of—”

A sword at his throat stills him. 

“Where’s the man in black?” Robyn demands. 

Watts glances up and finds Elm towering over him too, and swallows thickly. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” he says.

“Elm,” Robyn says, with a calm that belies no calm at all. “Jog his memory.”

Elm raises a fist and brings it down on Watts’s head. Watts blinks blankly, then collapses on top of his wheelbarrow.

“Oh,” Elm frowns. “I didn’t mean to jog him that hard. Sorry."

Robyn takes a deep breath. "It's not your fault he's too puny to take a bop to the head," she says, then swears. “Shit, how are we supposed to find the man in black now?”

Elm glances around. “He can’t be far,” she says, then looks down at Watts and the wheelbarrow again. “Why was he rolling this into a tree, anyhow?”

Robyn’s eyes go wide, and she immediately whirls and starts pressing about the tree’s many knobs. “Mother, guide my hand,” she murmurs, and a few frantic moments later, she presses down against the bark and hears a soft click. 

“Ha!” she cries as a hidden door falls open. She draws her sword and runs down the stairs, prepared to fight whoever might be waiting inside. Elm follows after her, crouched down to fit through the narrow entryway but ready with her fists all the same, but all the two find is the object of their search laying prone on the table, pale and stiff and cold.

Elm gasps. Robyn storms up to the table and shakes the man’s shoulders, desperate. “Wake up,” she hisses. “Wake up!” 

Elm frowns and nudges her aside, then bends over the body and lays an ear to his chest. After a moment, she straightens, then says gravely, “He’s dead.”

* * *

Tai lowers the book. “You two doing alright?” he asks. 

Ruby and Yang are wrapped tight in Yang’s sheets now, gripping each other’s hands. Both of their eyes are comically wide. Yang swallows and asks, “What’s Elm mean, ‘dead’? He’s not…he’s not really gone, is he?”

“Clover’s just faking, isn’t he?” Ruby squeaks. 

“I think you two are getting a little worked up about this,” Tai says, shutting the book, “which is the opposite effect that I wanted. Maybe we should read something else.”

“No!” they both shout, followed by a bombarding chorus of “You can’t stop there!” and “We’re fine, keep reading!” Tai sighs, even though he can’t manage to hide his smile, and opens the book again.

* * *

“He can't be dead!” Robyn whirls and paces past Watt’s desk, furious, then swipes all his notes off the table. “Fuck! What now?”

Elm frowns. “I don’t know,” she admits. Her frown deepens. “Do you think the prince was waiting for him?”

“Hell,” Robyn says, raking her hands through her hair. “Shit. Hang on. Maybe…Elm, grab the body. Hurry.”

Elm blinks, then hefts the man’s limp body over her shoulder. “Where are we going?” she asks as Robyn races back up the stairs. 

“Hills don’t take defeat that easily,” Robyn says firmly. “We’re going to see the Miracle Man. Do you have any money?”

“A little.”

“Let’s hope it’s enough.”

The Miracle Man was a magician of sorts, once employed by King James until the Atlas court became concerned with accusations of witchcraft (which, of course, is an entirely different brand of otherworldly phenomena than miracles). Once a busy, renowned man of his craft, the Miracle Man had retired in shame, shunned for his work.

Robyn leads Elm to a small shop just outside the village near the palace grounds and knocks urgently. 

No one answers. Robyn beats on the door harder, till a crabby voice answers, “Coming, coming! For gods’ sakes…”

A short, elderly woman opens the slot in the door, peering over the edge curiously and squinting at them with enormous metal eyes that glint stark blue against the shadows of the entryway. “Well?” she prompts. “What is it? Who are you?” 

“We’re here to see the Miracle Man,” Robyn tells her.

The woman scoffs. “Haven’t you heard? We’ve gone out of business. Get out of here, or I’ll call the brute squad.”

“I’m on the brute squad,” Elm objects.

The woman’s mechanical eyes click and shift towards her. “You _are_ the brute squad,” she returns.

“It’s important,” Robyn insists. “Please, ma’am. We don’t have much, but we can pay.”

“And I suppose you think we’re so desperate for money that we’ll take any customer who comes crawling to our door,” the woman says dryly, but she lets them in anyway. “How much have you got?”

“…Sixty-five, ma’am.”

“Not much,” the woman repeats dryly. Still, she tilts her head back and shouts, “Pietro! Work for you!” 

There’s a crash from somewhere inside the shop, which, now that they’re inside, looks like more of a house than a real place of business, with a stone hearth and a wide table surrounded by hanging pots and shelved vegetables. The woman eyes the man over Elm’s shoulder suspiciously before a man in a wheelchair enters the front room.

“I’m terribly sorry,” the man says, a little frantic, pushing his glasses higher on his nose, “Maria should’ve mentioned I’m closed for business—” 

“I did mention it,” Maria says snippily. She turns back to Robyn and Elm, apparently short on patience. “Don’t mind him. His confidence has been shot since the court kicked us out, is all.”

“Maria!” Pietro exclaims, embarrassed. 

“Hush, you old coot. The sooner they tell us what they want, the sooner they can leave. Now,” she folds her arms over her cane. “What _do_ you want?”

Robyn motions to Elm, who steps forward and lowers the man in black to the table. 

“Good gods, what happened to him?” Pietro asks, peering at the man’s ashen face.

“Some…” Robyn grimaces, then waves her hand dismissively. “Some awful machine. I can’t explain it. We need to bring him back to life. Can you help him?” 

“For sixty-five,” Maria scoffs, then reaches over to prod at the man’s cheek and poke curiously at his chest. “What’s so important that this one needs to cheat death, huh?” 

“He—” Robyn begins, then looks helplessly at Elm, who shrugs. “I need him to help me avenge my mother.” 

“You want us to raise the dead for _revenge?”_

“He’s in love, too!” Elm blurts. Everyone turns to look at her. Sheepish, she says a little quieter, “He’s in love. There’s a prince waiting for him, but if he’s dead, the prince has to marry the king.”

Both of them frown. Maria’s mouth pinches tight, and she says, “A prince, huh? Waiting for someone dressed like a thieving pirate? I don’t believe you. Pietro, give me that bellows.” 

Pietro rolls his chair back a bit and grabs it off the shelf behind him, then gives it to her and starts drumming his fingers against his chair. He looks slightly more believing than Maria does, but still unsure. 

“Lets ask him what’s so important, huh?” Maria says triumphantly, sticking the bellows into the man’s slack mouth.

Robyn blinks. “He’s dead. How’s he going to tell you anything?” 

“Ha! Dead, she says. Your pal’s only _mostly_ dead, young lady, which is good for you. Mostly dead means slightly alive, and _that_ we can work with. So let’s see what he’s got to say.” Maria squeezes the bellows a few times, and the man’s chest rises like he’s taken a deep breath. She passes the bellows back to Pietro, then leans over the man and says loudly, “Hey! Hello! What’s so important, huh? What have you got to live for?” 

Having asked, Maria pushes down on the man’s chest. As all the air rushes out of his mouth, he breathes, _“Qrow.”_

“Aha!” Elm shouts. “See! He means Lord Branwen! The king’s betrothed!” 

Maria huffs, but even with her gruff demeanor, she seems almost a little pleased. “Well,” she says. “I’ll be damned. True love it is. Pietro?” 

“I’m…” he hesitates. “It’s just that I’m not sure I—” 

“Not sure!” Maria scolds. “Best miracle worker in the kingdom, and he says he’s not sure. Didn’t you hear what this boy just said? His lover’s waiting on him. Be a little romantic, why don’t you?” 

Pietro inhales, then suddenly nods sharply and looks determined. “Alright,” he says. “Alright, give me a moment.” 

So, after Robyn paces impatiently around the shop and Maria leans over Pietro’s work for the better part of an hour, Pietro holds up a little walnut-sized miracle, covered in chocolate.

“It helps it go down faster,” he explains when Robyn and Elm stare at him. “Oh, but don’t feed it to him yet. It needs fifteen minutes to set before it can take full effect.” 

“Thank you,” Robyn says sincerely, taking it and giving Pietro the payment. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t do anything foolish!” Maria calls after them after they gather the man from the table and rush out the door. When they only wave back frantically and take off, she sighs and says, “They’re going to do something foolish, aren’t they?” 

“Oh,” Pietro says, pushing his glasses up again, “most certainly.” 

Inside the castle, the wedding is set to begin in a half-hour. James is dressed in a fine dark suit of navy blue, golden cords and epaulettes at his shoulders and breast pocket. As servants bustle about him, combing every hair into place and trying their best to manage his beard, Winter approaches and quietly informs him that Count Tyrian hasn’t been seen since early that morning. Thoroughly paranoid now, James tells her to double the amount of guards at the castle gate, unaware that Tyrian has already snuck back into the castle’s secret passages with a few of his trusted soldiers.

And just beyond that gate, Robyn and Elm drag the man in black’s body along the top of the castle wall.

“Robyn,” Elm hisses as she drops the man to Robyn’s shoulders. 

Robyn grunts and falls under the man’s limp weight, then glances up in mild annoyance. “What is it?”

“That’s more than thirty,” Elm tells her, peeking over the top of the wall. “I heard there would be thirty men, but that’s at least sixty. What are we supposed to do now?” 

“Sixty?” Robyn says dismissively, lifting the man’s head as if in demonstration. “What’s that matter? We’ve got him.” 

“Has it been fifteen minutes yet?”

“I don’t know. We can’t wait, though. We have to move while everyone’s still running around for the ceremony. If we wait longer than that, we’ll miss our chance. Sit him up.”

Elm hauls the man into a sitting position. Robyn pulls out the miracle and, praying quietly, shoves it into his mouth and tips his chin up until he swallows.

“How do we know if it worked?” Elm asks.

“I don’t know,” Robyn says, and it’s barely out of her mouth before the man’s eyes fly open and he yells, “I’ll beat you both to pieces! I’ll take on both of you—!” 

Elm slaps a hand over his mouth. “Well,” she says in thinly veiled amusement, “I guess that answers that.”

Robyn groans and pinches the bridge of her nose.

Quiet now, the man demands, “You’re the two I defeated before. Why are you here? Why am _I_ here? Where’s Qrow?”

“Alright, calm down,” Robyn says. “Let me explain.” She pauses, then says, “Actually, that would take too long. I’ll sum it up. Your lover’s going to marry the king in about a half-hour. You want to rescue him, and I want to kill Count Tyrian. So all we have to do is storm the castle, break up the wedding, stab a guy, and get out with Lord Branwen.”

“Is that all,” the man mutters. He frowns. “Why can’t I move?” 

“You’ve been mostly dead all day,” Elm tells him. “We asked the miracle man to make a pill to bring you back.” She pauses, then adds, “I’m Elm, by the way. I don’t think I caught your name before. You know, when you choked me out.”

“I didn’t kill you,” the man points out, though he looks like he isn’t sure if he should be displeased about that or not. “I’m Clover.” 

“You know me already,” Robyn says, slightly miffed that he offered his name to Elm so easily after not telling her what it was during their duel. “So, are you going to help us, or what?”

“What are our assets and weaknesses?” Clover asks. 

“My steel, Elm’s strength, and your brains, against—Elm, help me.” They lift him up enough that he can tilt his head back and see over the top of the wall, where James’s guards stand neary shoulder to shoulder in the courtyard, all armed and ready. “Us against sixty men,” Robyn finishes as they lower him back down, “and that gate is the only way into the castle.” 

“We’re doomed,” Clover declares, his head slumped against the stone. “If I had a month, I could plan something half-way successful, but a half-hour? I’ve lost him.” 

“Don’t be so pitiful,” Robyn snaps at him. “We didn’t go through all that trouble for you to just give up. Now think.” 

“I _am_ thinking,” he snaps right back, his fingers curling halfway closed over his chest.

“Hey, you moved!” Elm says excitedly.

“I heal fast.” Clover chews his lip, eyes flitting about at nothing in particular while he thinks. “Hell, if we even had something as simple as a wheelbarrow…” 

“Didn’t that scientist have a wheelbarrow?” Robyn asks, looking up at Elm, who nods.

Clover looks exasperated. “You should’ve listed that with our assets,” he says, then huffs a breath to flick his bangs out of his eyes. “Now if we just had a fireproof cloak…that’d be something. I could work with that.” 

“I don’t know where we could get—” 

“I’ve got one!” Elm pipes up, reaching into her shirt and pulling one forth.

Robyn stares at her. “Where did that come from?” 

“Pietro’s place. Maria said it fit me so well, I should just keep it.” 

“Good,” Clover says, animated now despite still being unable to move. “Good! I have a plan, then, I think. It’s risky.”

“We haven’t got the time for anything better,” Robyn says. “Tell us what to do."

“Help me up,” he instructs, and they pull him to his feet, one of his arms over each of their shoulders. “I’m going to need a sword soon.”

“You can barely wiggle your pinky finger,” Robyn objects.

“Maybe,” Clover agrees, “But no one else knows that.” He slumps forward, and Elm puts a hand on his head to keep him upright. “Thank you.”

“Alright, fair enough. A sword,” Robyn says. “Then what? How do I find the Count? And once I kill him, where will I meet you? And how do we escape with Lord Branwen after that?”

“Slow down,” Elm chides. “The man just woke up.” 

Robyn exhales. “Alright, alright. Sorry.”

Clover sighs. “Let’s just get the damned wheelbarrow. I’ll think up the rest as we go.”

Half an hour later, wedding music echoes through the castle sanctuary. James stands at the altar, straight-backed and utterly composed. The audience rises and turns towards the door, silent and watchful and full of expectations. 

And Qrow, dressed in a fine suit of white silk and embroidered gold, and with a crown of jewels atop his head, takes slow steps down the aisle, looking all the while as though he must be the most miserable man in the world.

James offers his arm as Qrow reaches the altar, sadness behind his blue eyes. “You look beautiful,” he murmurs sincerely.

Qrow only exhales quietly. 

Behind a podium, an extremely short clergywoman with greying hair, introduced as Reverend Cordovin, stands on top of a stepping stool, hands folded neatly in front of her and her face betraying her pride as she begins the ceremony. “Marriage,” she cries loudly, and for dramatics, holds her _r’s_ as long as she can, _“Marriage_ is what brings us together today. _Marriage,_ that _blessed_ arrangement, that dream within a dream.”

Outside: Elm stands in the wheelbarrow and dons her cloak. Robyn hoists Clover onto her back and pushes the wheelbarrow forward slowly, grunting in effort.

The first cry of alarm from the guards is music to Clover’s ears.

“Halt! Halt there!” General Schnee steps in front of her soldiers, sword drawn. “I said, halt!”

Elm lowers her voice to a terrifying growl. “I am the Dread Pirate Roberts!” she announces. “There will be no survivors!”

One of Schnee’s men jolts. She barks, “Stand your ground!” 

Inside: the ceremony pauses. James looks over his shoulder at the door. 

Qrow follows his gaze, brow knitting. “What is that?” he asks, then shuts his mouth when he sees James’s expression. 

He looks…worried. Afraid, maybe.

Cordovin clears her throat, then goes on, “And love, _true_ love, will follow you forever—” she tries, but no one’s paying attention anymore. 

Outside: the ruckus at the gate grows louder. Soldiers are visibly shaken now. Some have broken formation.

“Stand your gods-damned ground!” Schnee snaps.

“I am here, and soon you will not be!” Elm cries, and sounds like she’s having a great deal of fun. 

“Now?” Robyn asks desperately.

“Not yet,” Clover says. 

“The Dread Pirate Roberts comes for your souls!”

“Stay and fight!” Schnee demands of her soldiers. A few have already bolted.

“Now?!” Robyn hisses.

“Light her!” Clover commands, and Robyn tosses a lit candle onto Elm’s robes.

“The Dread Pirate Roberts takes no survivors!” Elm bellows, the outermost layer of fuzz on her cloak abruptly going up in flames. “I am all your worst nightmares come true! Tremble before me!” 

Schnee’s soldiers scatter, near trampling each other to get away and crying out in terror. Schnee screams, “Stand and fight, damn you! Cowards!” and suddenly finds herself alone. She swears and darts under the gate, quickly lowering it.

Elm rips off the flaming cloak. Clover shouts, “Elm, the portcullis!” and she lunges for it just before it can sink into the ground, forcing it back up. 

“Shit,” Schnee breathes, staring up at her.

“You!” Robyn shouts, half-dragging Clover to the gate while he shuffles his feet helplessly. “Give us the gate key!” 

“You can pry it from my corpse,” Schnee spits.

“I’d rather not,” Clover pipes up, managing to lift his head enough for her to see his face. “Hello, Winter. I see you’ve been promoted. Congratulations.” 

Winter’s face goes slack with surprise. “Clover?” she gapes. 

He grunts as Robyn hoists him a little higher. “In the flesh.” 

“But you…you’re really alive! Everyone thought you were killed!” 

“It’s a very long story,” Clover says impatiently. “My lover is about to get married, so if you don’t mind…”

“I—” Winter starts, conflicted.

“Winter,” Clover says gravely, “I don’t want to kill you.” _But I will, if I must,_ goes unsaid, but somehow it still echoes between them.

She hesitates, then exhales, reaches into her pocket and produces the gate key. “Ebi,” she tells him, “You didn’t hear this from me, but King James fears someone might make an attempt on Lord Branwen’s life.”

Clover’s eyes harden. “Thank you,” he says. Then, “Elm?”

“Sorry,” Elm says sincerely, and gently chops her hand against Winter’s neck, catching her before she collapses and laying her at the gate entrance.

Inside: James says “Enough,” sharply, and Cordovin stops mid-sentence. James motions to two guards and steers Qrow towards them by the shoulders, his metal hand gripping just a little too tight. “Escort the Prince to the honeymoon chambers. Guard him with your life.” His voice darkens. “If anything happens to him, I’ll behead you myself. Understand?”

The guards swallow and nod briskly. “Yes, sire.”

Qrow realizes a few things, then: James believes this is an attempt on their lives, Tyrian had never been found and may in fact be responsible for said attempt, and Clover hadn’t come for him.

And if Clover hadn’t come, then—

“Excuse us, Your Majesty,” one of the soldiers says, taking him by the arm and hurrying him along, but his tone sounds off, like there’s no sympathy behind the apology. Qrow wonders if he’s in danger but decides it doesn’t matter, and can’t bring himself to care when they shut him in the honeymoon suite and their footsteps quickly fade from the door.

Now sneaking through the castle, Robyn leads the group with her sword at the ready while Elm keeps Clover mostly upright with little effort. Clover holds a sword in his hand and manages to move his legs now, but any attempt at putting his weight down just makes his knees buckle.

Robyn pauses at the crossway of two halls and puts a finger to her lips. There’s a low clank of armor and sheathed swords, and then Count Tyrian rounds the next crossway and stops short, accompanied by the two guards who had escorted Qrow and three others.

Tyrian’s silver tail flicks curiously behind him. Robyn goes very, very still, then sets her stance.

Tyrian fixes his beady eyes on Clover. “I’m very certain I killed you,” he says.

“You should’ve tried harder,” Clover tells him, sword tight in his hand.

“Touché,” Tyrian says, then turns his attention to Robyn. “Hm, hm. Haven’t we met?”

“Let me remind you,” Robyn grits out, “by removing that tail of yours a second time.”

Tyrian’s face twists into something furious. “Well, kill her!” he barks at his accompaniment.

All five of them rush forward. In a series of perfect strokes, Robyn fells them all. 

Tyrian freezes, taken aback. Robyn flicks blood from her sword and sets her stands again. “My name is Robyn Hill,” she says, a cocktail of emotions flitting across her face: nerves, delight, rage, and back again. “You killed my mother. Prepare to die.”

There’s a lengthy pause. Then, Tyrian turns and bolts, and Robyn takes off after him.

Clover and Elm glance at each other tiredly, then start shuffling to follow again.

Tyrian tears down a hall and ducks through a door, which locks behind him. Robyn slams her body into it just as it clicks. “Elm!” she screams. “Elm, I need you! Help me! Elm!” 

“I can’t leave him here!” Elm calls to her. 

“He’s getting away from me! Elm! _Please,_ he’s getting away!”

“Ah, shit,” Elm says, glancing around. After a second of deliberation, she hoists Clover up and tucks his arms into a suit of armor left on display. “Stay here a second, will you?” she says, then runs off after Robyn.

“For gods’ sakes,” Clover mutters, his cheek smushed against metal. 

Down the hall, Elm stops Robyn from running into the door, then throws her own weight against it. The door buckles around the lock and breaks apart easily. Robyn yells, “Thank you!” and takes off again. 

“Be careful!” Elm calls, then returns to the suit of armor and finds it devoid of a half-paralyzed man. 

She scratches her jaw, glancing around for him. The hall is empty. “Well,” she mutters, “So much for the plan.”

Meanwhile, Robyn runs after Tyrian as fast as her legs can carry her. She chases him across the castle, down long halls and winding stairs, and finally sees him dive through another door. Victory surges through her as she shoves the door open and rushes in, a brief feeling suddenly overwhelmed by sharp pain as his stinger cuts across her belly. 

Robyn gasps, feeling the dizzying effects of poison and blood loss, and sinks to the ground.

“I do remember you,” Tyrian says with open amusement. He paces around her in a circle, grinning all the while. “The blacksmith’s daughter from years back. I’m genuinely shocked that you survived me.” He snickers. “Did you dedicate your second chance at life to chasing me for vengeance, only to fail when it mattered the most?” He sighs, pressing a dramatic hand to his brow. “Why, that might be the most exquisitely pathetic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Purple eyes flick up to him, murderous and still determined.

* * *

“Robyn’s going to beat him!” Yang declares, over-animated before she hesitates and lowers her raised fist. “Right?” 

“You two keep asking me for spoilers,” Tai chides, “When the book is going to answer your question in like two seconds.”

Ruby puts her head in her hands. “I can’t take the suspense!” she cries. “Tyrian can’t just _win!”_

“Hey, hey, relax!” Tai exclaims. “I said this was a happy ending, didn’t I?”

Both of them pout. Satisfied, Tai says, “Alrighty then,” and turns the page.

* * *

In the honeymoon suite, Qrow lifts a hinged box from the shelf, placed there in anticipation hours before, thin and long and otherwise unremarkable. He presses his lips together, then opens the box and lifts a simple but sturdy dagger from it.

He’d imagined his own death many times, but he’d always figured it would be at the hands of some angry party who’d caught him playing spy for Ozma, or even from the kidnappers just a week earlier. But…he supposes he’s been dead for five years already, only briefly brought back to life for the short window of time that Clover had been returned to him.

Qrow grips the dagger tightly and holds the blade to his heart, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“That’s a shame,” a voice interrupts, and Qrow startles and whirls. From the bed, Clover grins at him, propped up against mounds of pillows. “Ruining a breast that perfect? It’d be a tragedy, don’t you think?”

Qrow’s dagger clatters to the ground. In a flash, he launches himself onto the bed and settles over Clover’s lap, pressing their mouths together hard enough to hurt before laying starving kisses along Clover’s jaw and throat.

Clover makes a little wounded noise for more than one reason. “Qrow—”

“Why won’t you touch me?” Qrow begs. 

“Qrow, easy—”

“I thought you died _again,”_ Qrow rasps, laying a hand over Clover’s chest and pressing his weight down, “and all you can say is ‘easy’—”

“Easy!” Clover gasps.

Qrow lurches back, eyes flitting over Clover’s body frantically. “What happened to you?” he demands, as if just remembering why he’d thought Clover dead in the first place. “Where are you hurt?”

“All over,” Clover laughs; then, as Qrow starts to get off of him, “No, no! Stay, this is alright.” He runs a light touch over Qrow’s thigh, all he can manage for the moment after the effort of getting himself here, and his brows knit slightly. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “It should’ve been me watching you walk down the aisle like this.”

Qrow takes Clover’s hand in both of his own and brings his knuckles up to kiss. “You still can,” he says softly. “James and I weren’t married. Someone was trying to break down the castle doors, so the ceremony was interrupted.” He pauses, blinking as Clover’s face lights up in mischievous glee. “That was you.”

“I told you even death couldn’t keep me from you, pretty bird,” Clover says, brushing his knuckles over Qrow’s bottom lip.

Qrow’s face softens. “You have a bad habit of tempting fate, lucky charm,” he says fondly.

Across the castle, in a far less tender reunion, Robyn shakily climbs to her feet. 

“Are you actually still trying?” Tyrian asks dubiously. “I must say, I’m truly impressed. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone so dedicated to revenge.” He rolls his sword wrist, the blade gleaming in the light. “Careful. That might land you in trouble someday.”

“Hello,” Robyn rasps. “My name is Robyn Hill. You killed my mother. Prepare to die.”

Tyrian snorts, but cuts himself off sharply and jumps back as Robyn’s sword nearly grazes him. 

“Hello,” Robyn says louder. “My name is Robyn Hill. You killed my mother. Prepare to die.” Her face twists in pain, and she stumbles into one of the tables at the center of the room but rights herself quickly.

Tyrian’s lip curls in a snarl. He swings his sword down on her hard, only to have to spin to follow his weapon when a flick of Robyn’s wrist deflects the blow. He crashes into another table as he does, then leaps away as Robyn lunges after him. 

“Hello. My name is Robyn Hill.” She stabs towards his belly and only steps closer when he parries. “You killed my mother. Prepare to die.”

Tyrian grits his teeth and steps back, defensive, movements coming quick and leaning towards desperation. He swipes his sword at her throat, and she ducks it, thrusting her sword out to burrow in his shoulder. He hisses and swings for her head once more, and that too, she ducks and meets with a stab to the opposite arm. Tyrian lets out a cry of frustrated pain.

“Hello!” Robyn yells, a furious clash of swords resounding between her every breath. “My name is Robyn Hill! You killed my mother! Prepare to die!” 

“Stop saying that!” Tyrian screeches, and then his eyes go wide as a twist of Robyn’s sword sends his own flying across the room. In that same attack, she slices his cheek open. 

Tyrian freezes. Robyn demands, “Offer me money.”

“Yes—!” Tyrian caves, only to gasp out loud when she slices his other cheek too, matching wounds for the scars on her face.

“Power too,” she says. “Offer me that.”

“All I have, “ he swears, even as his beady eyes flit over her to look for any kind of opening, his tail poised to strike at the earliest opportunity. 

“Offer me anything I ask for,” Robyn breathes, settling into a ready stance. If he wants an opening, he won’t find it in her.

“Anything you want,” Tyrian promises. His stinger twitches.

Robyn exhales. Her whole life boils down to this. 

“I want my mother back,” she says quietly, “you son of a bitch.” 

And with that, she runs him through, her blade clanging loudly against the metal of his tail as it exists through his back. Tyrian chokes and spits blood, hands curling around her sword helplessly before she yanks it loose. He collapses on the ground, eyes rolling back as he dies and a rasp of “Forgive me, my queen…” on his last breath.

Robyn exhales again. She’s shaking and dizzy and bleeding, but she’s alive, and her mother is at peace, and for now, that will give her enough strength to find her allies. She glances at Tyrian’s body one more time, presses it into her memory like a fine flower in a scrapbook, then runs off through the castle, doing her best to bear the pain.

* * *

“Good riddance!” Yang cheers victoriously, while Ruby whoops and starts jumping on the bed. “I knew she’d get him!” 

“Begone, scorpion man!” Ruby shouts, and Yang takes her hands and starts jumping on the bed too.

“You two are never going to get to sleep,” Tai laughs. “Sit down and let me finish. It’s almost over.”

* * *

“You’re sure you don’t need to see the physician?” Qrow asks worriedly, sitting on the bed beside Clover now.

“I’ve had a miracle, apparently,” Clover says, grunting in pain as he sits up. Qrow wraps an arm around his back and puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him steady, and Clover rests a hand on Qrow’s thigh for balance. “But _apparently—”_ he winces, “apparently, it wasn’t ready, so it’s slow going. I’ll be back to full health soon.”

Qrow’s brows knit. “You needed a miracle?” he asks, and before Clover can explain, the door suddenly flies open. 

James stops in the entryway, sword in hand. His mouth falls open as he lays eyes on them. There’s a long moment of silence, then: _“Clover?”_

“My King,” Clover says. There’s respect in his voice, but something firmer there, too. His hand tightens on Qrow’s leg. Qrow swallows, gaze flicking between them both.

“I…” James says, lowering his sword. “You were dead.”

“I’m alive and well, as you see.”

James opens his mouth again, then closes it. “If I’d known—” 

“What?” Clover asks sharply. “You wouldn’t have tried to marry the love of my life?”

“Clover,” Qrow objects, but Clover’s already rising slowly from the bed, a barely-there tremor in his frame. 

He lifts his sword till the tip of the blade follows the line of James’s throat, deadly intent in his green eyes. “James,” he says, with unwavering conviction, “There is no friend I value more, no king I’d rather serve. But my love for Qrow is what keeps me breathing, and I’d sooner cut you down than let you take him as your husband.”

Behind him, all the air audibly rushes out of Qrow’s lungs. Other than that, there’s only a stretched-out silence.

After a moment, James huffs a laugh. “I don’t think all of that is entirely necessary,” he says, sheathing his sword. Long-empty blue eyes shine with warmth. “Welcome back, my friend.”

Clover blinks, lowering his sword. “Oh,” he says, then exhales hard. “Good. That’s good. Because I…” he trails off, then stumbles back to the bed, weak still. 

“Oh, good grief,” Qrow complains, sliding over to grab his arm and pull him a little further back to the mattress.

James lets out a surprised laugh. “You were bluffing?” he asks, setting his sword aside and hooking his arms under Clover’s boots to hoist him the rest of the way up.

“I’m very good at bluffing,” Clover defends, squeezing his eyes shut briefly at all the movement. “You bought it.” 

“I suppose I did,” James admits. 

Then, from the window, “Clover! Clover! Where the hell did you get off to? Clover! Lord Branwen?”

James frowns and rises, moving to the window to look. Below, Elm glances up at him and jumps. “Oh,” she says. “Um, hello, Your Majesty.”

“Who are you?” James asks.

“Uh—” 

“That’s Elm,” Clover tells him. “She helped me break into the castle.” 

James turns to look at him. Clover grins sheepishly. James sighs. “Is that the reason I found my best general unconscious at my gate?” 

“I resent that,” Clover says. Qrow rolls his eyes.

Just then, Robyn stumbles into the room, sword still bloody. She freezes when she sees James and shoots a questioning look at Clover, who just shrugs.

“Who are _you?”_ James asks. 

“Uh,” Robyn answers. 

“Another ally,” Clover substitutes.

“I see,” James says. 

“I…uh,” Robyn says, watching James carefully. “I killed your Count.”

James raises a brow. “Tyrian?” 

“Yes.”

“Oh,” James says, then frowns and scratches at his beard. “I wanted to question him.”

Qrow huffs. “He would’ve just lied,” he says. “You could’ve tortured him and he would’ve lied till he bled out. We’ll just have to learn about his mistress some other way.” His lip curls. “Good riddance, if you ask me. I hope the bastard suffered.”

Robyn grins. “I could’ve made it worse, but I was in a hurry.”

Qrow narrows his eyes at her. “Weren’t you one of the people who kidnapped me?”

“I made up for it,” she objects, then sways on her feet. “Speaking of Count Asshole, I might be dying of organ failure.”

“Excuse me!” Elm shouts from outside. “Is that Robyn and Clover in there? Did you two find the prince?” 

James pinches his brow. “I’m going to overlook all of this as a grand misunderstanding,” he announces, then stoops to sling Robyn’s arm over his shoulders. She makes a low noise like she might puke. “I’m taking this one to the physician, and I’ll send someone out to get your other friend.” He pauses, then nods at Qrow. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“It wasn’t entirely believable,” Qrow admits, “to be fair.” 

“Neither of you have any faith,” Clover sighs.

James clears his throat, cheeks flushing pink. “Yes, well. I…suppose I don’t have much need for this room, so Clover…rest, and uh…enjoy yourselves.” With that, he half-carries Robyn out the door and quickly shuts it behind them.

Clover and Qrow pause, then snort. Clover says, “He never was good at speeches.”

“Never,” Qrow agrees, then leans over him and presses a kiss to Clover’s mouth, gentle this time. “I missed you,” he murmurs.

Clover’s eyes roam over Qrow’s face, ever smitten and sweet-hearted. “Do you still love me?”

Qrow lifts Clover’s hand to his cheek, presses a kiss to his palm and nuzzles there too. “Do you have to ask?”

“I like to hear it.”

“I love you,” Qrow tells him. “More than I’ve ever loved anything, I love you.”

“Then,” Clover says softly, “When I’m healed, and all this mess has blown over, and I can pass my ship onto the next Dread Pirate…will you marry me?”

“You could just retire the Dread Pirate altogether,” Qrow laughs.

“Where’s the fun in killing a legend?” Clover asks. “Is that a yes?”

Qrow kisses him in answer. Clover murmurs, “Lucky me,” against his mouth, and Qrow sighs, “Lucky you,” right back.

* * *

“The end,” Tai announces.

“That was so sweet,” Ruby says dreamily. “I knew they’d end up together. I knew the whole time.”

“You did not,” Yang scoffs. She looks a tad embarrassed, then admits, “I didn’t either. But it was a good story.”

“It was a good story,” Tai agrees, “and it’s over, which means you two have to go to sleep. Go on, shoo.” He wiggles his fingers at Ruby, a threat of tickles, and she lets out a little shriek and quickly runs to her own bed. Tai tucks them in and kisses both of their foreheads, and starts to turn out the light before Ruby pipes up, “Dad, what about the mysterious mastermind lady?”

Tai pauses. “Um…I think there was a sequel to this book, maybe. I don’t think we have it, though.”

“I bet it’s Ozma’s queen,” Ruby guesses.

“Oh yeah?” Tai says, scratching his chin. “What makes you say that?”

“She was the only important lady we didn’t know anything about,” Ruby says.

“Do you think Ozma knows?” Yang asks her excitedly. “Or do you think she’s only mean and horrible when he’s not looking?”

“Goodnight, you two,” Tai says firmly, then turns out the light and shuts the door. He immediately hears them giggling and chatting quietly about the story, and can’t help smiling a little bit.

As he returns to the living room to put the book back in place, the front door opens. Qrow and Clover come in, eyes alight and their quiet laughter full of affection as they hang their jackets by the door.

“How was your date?” Tai asks by way of greeting.

“The movie was awful,” Qrow says, just as Clover volunteers, “The food was amazing.”

Qrow snorts. “I wouldn’t know about the food,” he says. “Someone ate half of mine.” 

“It wasn’t half,” Clover objects, and Qrow laughs again before he takes notice of the book in Tai’s hand.

“Hey, is that…” he asks, reaching for it. Tai hands it over, and Qrow’s smile turns nostalgic as he takes a seat on the arm of the couch. “Aw, hell, I remember this book.”

Clover leans over his shoulder, curious. “What is it?”

“The Princess Bride,” Qrow answers, flipping through the first few pages. He chuckles. “Look at this. When I was a kid, I scribbled out the princess’s name and wrote mine in. Raven nearly killed me for it.”

Clover laughs and nudges a kiss against his cheek. “How cute,” he croons. “Baby Qrow wanted his own Prince Charming.”

“Hey, I got one, didn’t I?” Qrow teases, and snickers when Clover flushes red.

“That thing is not appropriate for kids, by the way,” Tai tells Qrow firmly. “I had to improvise and leave half of it out. What you and Raven were doing with it at that age is beyond me.”

“We were very mature,” Qrow says solemnly. 

“Sure, you were,” Tai says with a roll of his eyes. “Well, I finally wrangled your nieces into bed, and I’m beat, so I’m going to sleep. Try not to stay up all night making out on my couch, will you?”

“Ha, ha,” Qrow says dryly. “At least your couch gets some action, huh, Xiao Long?”

Tai flips him off good-naturedly as he heads to his room. Behind him, he hears Qrow’s snarky laughter cut off abruptly as, most likely, Clover steals a kiss.

“Lovebirds,” Tai mutters fondly, and flicks his lightswitch off.


End file.
